


Across the Multiverse: Oneshot Collection

by wittyy_name



Series: Oneshot Collections [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, More specific tags will be before each oneshot, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittyy_name/pseuds/wittyy_name
Summary: A collection of oneshots that I've written throughout the years from prompts. Ratings G, T, and MEach chapter is a oneshot. Additional tags and summaries will be in the summary of each chapter.The first chapter will serve as a master list of all the oneshots within (along with word count, rating, aus, and themes) to allow an easier time choosing which you'd like to read. This will update as more are added.Updates regularly!
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Oneshot Collections [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146599
Comments: 93
Kudos: 475





	1. Table of Contents

**Chapter 1** \- Table of Contents

**Chapter 2** \- _You've Got Me Like Zero-G -_ 5,068 words _-_ [ Rated T - space camp - mutual pining ]  
 **Chapter 3** \- _You've Got Me Like Partners_ \- 5,951 words [ Rated M - police detectives au - reluctant partners - very open flirting - violence implied - sexual tension and implications]  
 **Chapter 4** \- _A Cupid's Fall_ \- 6,910 words - [ Rated T - cupid au - cupid Keith - oblivious pining - cupids are reincarnated human souls ]  
 **Chapter 5** \- _You've Got Me Like A Hidden Touch_ \- 5,198 words - [ Rated T - college au - secret relationship - fluff ]  
 **Chapter 6** \- _You've Got Me Like Mistletoe -_ 6,805 words - [ Rated T - Christmas themes - fluff - mutual pining ] _  
_ **Chapter** **7** \- _You've Got Me Like Spoilers_ \- 6,846 words - [ Rated T - soulmate au - fluff - growing up ]  
 **Chapter 8** \- _You've Got Me Like Space Pox_ \- 7,768 words - [ Rated T - canon divergence - sickness - pining - sick fic - comfort ]  
 **Chapter 9** \- _You've Got Me Like Swords_ \- 7,391 words - [ Rated T - canon divergence - fighting/training ]  
 **Chapter 10** \- _You've Got Me Like Red & Blue -_ 9,669 words - [ Rated M - superheroes - super powers and super gadgets - violence ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My Social Media:** [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/), [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com)


	2. You've Got Me Like Zero-G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - space camp - mutual pining - 5,068 words
> 
> _Lance is back at the Garrison’s summer space camp for the last time before he starts college. He hadn’t been expecting to see Keith again, but he can’t say that he wasn’t hoping for it. His old rival has filled out a lot in the past two years, and Lance’s old crush is still going strong._
> 
> _But he’s older and more confident this time around, and maybe this time he’ll actually be able to woo the boy._

On the first day of space camp, Lance recognized a familiar mop of hair.

Which, in retrospect, was a pretty weird way to recognize someone. But the last time he had been here, he’d spent plenty of time glaring at the back of his head. On the rare occasion, he had even tugged at that hair (“Lance, you’re literally pulling his pigtails,” Pidge had said with far too much exasperation for such a tiny body. “Am not. It’s clearly a ponytail.” “Oh my god.”) 

His hair hadn’t changed much (still longer in the back, framing his face in the front, dark and a mess but looking significantly less greasy and infinitely softer). He had certainly grown up a lot more since the last time Lance had seen him. He was taller, for one (though thankfully still shorter than Lance), but he had also filled out a little more: broader shoulders, thicker arms, lean muscles that were subtle, but yeah, Lance noticed. His face had lost the softness of youth, leaving behind sharp, defined features. 

His eyes, however, were the same. Angled, dark, framed by long lashes. Calculating and alert when in thought. Soft and sparkling when laughing. Both iterations making Lance’s insides churn and his heart race.

And when faced with the older, hotter version of his first gay crush and the subject of his bixexual crisis, Lance, being older and hotter himself, with infinitely more charms and confidence, was ready to woo.

“Hey, mullet, still livin’ it up in the eighties, I see.”

Keith glanced up from where he had been looking through all the itineraries and pamphlets they had been given. He blinked, navy eyes even more dazzling than Lance remembered. Then those thick brows furrowed beneath a heavy fringe, pouty lips pursing. 

“Do I know you?”

Lance gaped, mouth falling open and shoulders slumping as his arms go lax at his sides. He coughs, straightening, one hand on his hip while the other waves around vaguely. His recovery is rocky at best, but really? 

“Uh, name’s Lance?” Nothing. He tried again. “We were both here two years ago? You know, always fighting for top scores? Lance and Keith, neck ’n neck?” Great, now Keith was just looking at him like he was crazy, eyes darting for an escape. Lance’s cool cracked. He threw his arms up. “Seriously, dude? We were rivals!”

That seemed to cause a spark of recognition. His eyes snapped to his face, searching, frown deepening, cute nose wrinkling. “Oh yeah, I remember you—“

“Finally!”

“You were the loud one, right?”

“What?” And yeah, okay, shouting to rebuff that point wasn’t the best strategy, but come on! “We competed in everything, and  _ that’s _ how you remember me?” 

His brows quirked upward, nose relaxing. Lance could swear he saw the shadow of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Am I wrong?”

Lance flounders, mouth opening and closing like a goddamn fish. In the time it took him to recover, Keith was definitely smirking, waiting patiently like he was a saint.

“Not the point!” He finally managed to snap, shoving a threatening finger in his face. 

Keith looked at it for only a moment before slapping his hand away. “What  _ is _ the point, exactly?” He asked, standing so they were face to face. Lance was extremely grateful for those two inches, made him feel like he had the upper hand despite the fact that being this close made him weak at the knees.

“The point is I’m gonna kick your ass this year,” he said out of reflex, a defense mechanism that kicked in as he tried not to dwell on the smell of his shampoo or deodorant or whatever the fuck that earthy scent was. 

Great. Smooth. Charming. Woo the boy by threatening to kick his ass. Good plan. A Lance McClain original. 

Keith cocked his head to the side, eyes lighting in amusement even as they sparked and sharpened. His smirk was downright lethal, and okay, that was a new combo. One that Lance wasn’t sure he could survive. “Cause that worked so well for you last time.”

Cocky. 

Cocky, confident, teasing, mocking, challenging… flirty?

Was that what was happening right now?

His heart kicked it into double time, but his eyes crinkled, growing smirk bordering on a grin. “Oh, it is  _ on _ , mullet.”

That spark again. Fire. A widening smirk. He leaned in close, and Lance might have forgotten how to breathe. “Bring it, McClain.”

Oh, he was going down. 

Figuratively. Metaphorically. On the scoreboard. Not like… yeah.

Lance was too busy trying to simultaneously ground himself and fight off an impending heart attack to realize Keith had remembered his last name. 

* * *

“What’s the matter, Keith? Scared?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’ve been practically shaking since we suited up.”

“It’s cold in here.” 

“Mhmm… sure, Jan.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

They watched as the previous team surfaced, treading water and grinning as they removed their masks. He could hear Pidge and Hunk having a debate behind them. 

“I’m just  _ saying _ , if it was in  _ space _ , it would be a  _ space suit _ , right?”

“But it’s inherently a  _ swimsuit _ , whether you’re in space or not.”

“But if the purpose of it is removed, it wouldn’t matter.”

“So you’re saying if you wore a suit-suit in space, that would  _ also _ be a space suit?”

“Huh, I guess so.”

Lance really wanted to be part of the debate, but he had a nervous Keith to poke at. “It’s supposed to emulate working in a zero-g environment—“

“I know what the exercise is for, Lance,” he growled out between clenched teeth. 

He put his hands up defensively. “Fine, fine, don’t get your panties in a bunch, space cadet.” Keith just glared at him, but it wasn’t quite effective with his arms crossed and shoulders hiked up to his ears, a genuine worried pinch to his brows, lips in a full pout. Lance’s voice softened. “You’ve done this before.”

“I, uh… No, I haven’t.”

“What? But we did this one two years ago, too.”

He shifted his weight, looking away. “Last time I… faked sick on the day of this exercise.”

“So you  _ are _ afraid of water.”

“Fuck off, Lance.” And then, softer. “I can’t swim.”

“Dude, that’s what the scuba gear is for.”

Keith grunted, eyeing the water beneath the platform with clear trepidation.

“If it’s that big of a deal, why didn’t you call out sick this time?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d let me.”

He blinked, a slow wicked grin overtaking his face. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have.” He moved in front of Keith, standing so they were close enough for their conversation to be private. “Lucky for you, I’ve been swimming since before I could walk.” He dipped his chin a fraction, leering up at Keith through his lashes, waggling his brows for emphasis. His smirk was deadly. Two parts cocky, three parts confident, one part suggestive, and a dash of charm. All wrapped up in a neat bow and practiced in front of the mirror. Guaranteed to be a kill. 

He was a sniper, and Keith was his mark.

Boom. Headshot. 

“And if you end up needing a little mouth to mouth, I’m available.” He took several slow steps backward, eyes never leaving Keith’s and grin widening as he witnessed the aftermath. Just to put the final nail in that boy’s coffin, he winked. “Look alive, space cadet.”

And with that, he fitted his mask over his head and let himself fall backwards.

As the water engulfed him, he heard the instructors yelling at him for not waiting for permission to go ahead. 

It was worth it to see the stunned look on Keith’s face, pretty eyes wide and plump lips parted. Red was a good color on him

* * *

“You’re kidding me.”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“Fuck you, Keith. I know you’ve got a least one four in your hand.”

“I just said I didn’t. Go fish, Lance.”

“ _ Huuuunk _ .”

Hunk looked up from his bed, leaning over as Keith rolled his eyes and showed him his hand. “No fours, dude.”

He threw his arms up, careful not to scatter his cards as he rattled off curses in Spanish. 

Keith smirked, gesturing to the deck. “Your pond awaits.”

“ _ Your pond awaits _ .”

“How long are you guys gonna keep this up?” Pidge asked, lounging across the foot of Hunk’s bed, phone in one hand while the other occasionally reached for chips from the bag lying between them. 

“Until I win,” Lance said, shuffling his hand around.

“We’re on best eight out of fifteen because Lance is a sore loser,” Keith said, leaning against the wall, stretching his legs out until they hung off the edge of his bed. Lance tried not to stare. 

“Shut your trap, Kogane. I’ve won a couple rounds.”

He smirked, head tilting to the side in that way it does. Had they been alone and had Lance been braver, he would have been hard pressed to resist the urge to crawl across the bed and into his lap. “Yeah, only a couple.”

“Shut the hell your mouth.”

“I’ve won seven.”

“I said shut it!”

“Got any queens?”

“… No?”

“Lance.”

“Fuck,  _ fine! _ ” He handed over his card and stared, mouth open, as Keith laid out the rest of his cards. “What?”

“I just won.” That smirk combined with dancing eyes would be the death of him. 

“The fuck you did. Let’s go again.”

Everyone groaned.

“Laaaance,” Hunk whined. “Let it go.”

“Hunk! I have a title of Master Fisherman to uphold!”

Pidge snorted, wiping off her hands and rolling off the bed. “Well, you keep at it then, but I’m going to bed. Later, nerds.” She waved over her shoulders as she left the room, headed back to her own.

“Can we please sleep, too?” Hunk pleaded, flashing those big ol’ brown eyes. 

Lance flopped back on the bed with an exaggerated sigh, feeling his shirt ride up as he did so. “ _ Fiiine! _ ” He propped himself up on his elbows to glare at Keith. Whatever he was going to say next died on his tongue as he caught Keith’s gaze snapping back up to his face, eyes wide like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. And maybe he had. 

Interesting.

Lance waggled his eyebrows. “Like what you see?” He asked, giving his hips a little wiggle, which just ended up looking awkward in this position. 

Keith glared and looked away, frown not quite enough to hide the color creeping up his cheeks. “No.”

“Hey, Keith. Hey, hey, hey,” He poked at his leg with his foot until Keith looked at him. When he did, Lance’s smile widened of its own accord. “Wanna cuddle?”

“Get off my bed.”

“Are you sure? I’ll let you be the little spoon—“

Keith kicked him off the bed, and Lance went down laughing. Hunk rolled his eyes as he stepped over him on the way to the bathroom.

* * *

” _ Whooooo! _ ” Lance went as long as he could before his voice cut out with a laugh, and he had to breathe. Then he continued. “ _ Whooooo! _ ”

“Are you going to do that the whole time?” Keith asked, trying to sound deadpan and annoyed and failing miserably. 

Lance tried to look at him, but his chair was moving too much and far too quickly. This way, that way, up, down, left, right, around again. Going one way, direction change, around again, never the same way for too many rotations. He barely knew which way was up, let alone which way Keith’s chair was in. He occasionally got the flash of blue from the worker’s shirt from where she operated the multi-axis trainer. He did manage to catch a few glimpses of Keith’s rotating chair before focusing on one spot made him too light headed. 

“Yup!” He called out instead. “I’m having fun, and I’m expressing it. Aren’t you having fun, Keith?”

“Nope.” But Lance could hear the laugh in his voice that he tried so hard to keep down. He’d be willing to bet that Keith was grinning that big goofy grin he got whenever he was in high spirits. The same one that crinkled his eyes at the corners and made Lance’s heart ache. 

And if he continued to make sounds and  _ whoops _ and cheers that got increasingly ridiculous just because it made Keith laugh? Well, no one had to know.

By the time the machine stopped, and he was unstrapped, he was thoroughly breathless. He stumbled through the gate, putting a hand on it to ground himself. He wasn’t as dizzy as he anticipated, but he was feeling extremely off balance, knees like jelly and center of gravity thrown to the winds. 

He glanced over at Keith, and any air that he’d managed to suck down was instantly kicked from his lungs. 

Hair windswept and messy, strands escaping from the loosened ponytail. Eyes dancing, crinkling, bright and innocent. Smile fixed so firmly in place his cheeks had to be hurting, those cheeks that were flush and high. Teeth white, lips parted, breathing heavily. 

God  _ damn _ , where did that boy get off being so gorgeous?

Who allowed that?

Certainly not Lance.

But he wasn’t gonna complain. Not aloud anyway. 

Keith paused outside his gate, leaning against it for support, and Lance sauntered on over, ignoring how his legs wobbled. He hooked an arm over Keith’s shoulder, gesture intimate but friendly, and only partially because he wanted to use the guy to keep from falling over. 

Keith didn’t push him away, even as they started walking off to the side to get out of the way. 

“Good luck, buddy,” Lance said, holding up his free fist for Hunk to bump as they passed. 

“Thanks,” he said, offering them a weak smile. He looked pale, face already sweating and contorted in worry and apprehension. Shoulders hunched, hands fidgeting, feet a little pointed in. This was definitely not Hunk’s favorite activity, and it showed. Poor guy. 

Pidge, on the other hand, was bouncing on the balls of her feet and couldn’t get to the seat fast enough once she was gestured over. 

As they walked away, he leaned in to loudly whisper, “Betcha Hunk’s gonna puke.” 

Keith glanced at him, brows furrowing slightly as his lips pursed. Not a frown, as Lance used to think. Momentary confusion. He was learning to read Keith expressions. “But they’re built with a firm center of gravity and with rotational patterns so people  _ don’t _ get nauseous.”

Lance just smirked, holding up a finger and giving him a knowing look. “True, but Hunk defies the laws of physics.” 

Lance pulled his arm back as they reached the wall, leaning against it with the other people who had already had their turn. He didn’t have to miss the closeness for too long, however, because Keith leaned into his space, their upper arms touching, heads bowed close as they whispered and snickered amongst themselves. 

Lance ended up winning the bet. 

* * *

“I’m gonna call you Rover,” Pidge said fondly, sitting cross legged on the table with a computer in her lap, wires attaching it to the unfinished robot next to her. 

“You’re gonna name a rover… Rover?” Keith asked, voice blank as his expression. He didn’t sound judging, just curious.

Pidge glared at him over the top of her glasses, pushing them up her nose slowly. “Yes. Got a problem with that?”

He blinked, expression unchanging as he shrugged. “Nope.”

She nodded. “Good, because I’m naming him Rover whether you like it or not.”

“You know what we should add?” Lance said from where he leaned back in his seat, feet propped up on the table, head tilted back as he tried to balance a wrench across the bridge of his nose. “A cup holder.”

“Why would a rover need a cupholder?” This time there was more frustration spicing up that adorably confused voice, a little wrinkle in his nose. 

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“It’s in space.”

“But  _ this _ one isn’t going to space, and it can bring us drinks.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid!”

Keith snorted.

“Oh!” Hunk looked up from where he was scribbling out equations on their schematics. “But what if we made it a cup holder that doubled as a claw slash pinching… thing.”

Pidge paused her typing, tilting her head as her expression softened into something intrigued and thoughtful. He could see the gears turning behind those amber eyes. She shrugged. “I’m down. It’ll be easy to program if you can build it with all the appropriate weights and strength and stuff.”

“Keith and I can definitely build it,” he said, then leaned over and elbowed Keith playfully in the arm. “Right, Keith?” His smile was big and warm and genuine.

Keith looked away, shy smile and small and making Lance’s heart melt. “Yeah. Shouldn’t be too hard to construct and attach.” 

“Awesome! I’ll go grab more materials.”

“Make Lance help you. He’s not doing anything.”

“Excuse! I’m a very important part of this team,” he said, glaring at Keith as he held the wrench to his upper lip like a moustache. 

That got him to give another small snort of amusement before reaching out and pushing Lance’s feet off the table. He rocked forward, letting out a small yelp of protest. “You’ve just been sitting there playing with tools.”

“I’ve been passing them out occasionally.” Keith just stared at him, one eyebrow raised. Lance frowned. “What? Engineering and programing aren’t my things. I’m more of an action kinda guy. An idea guy.”

Keith looked like he was about to argue when Pidge spoke up. “He’s actually a surprisingly good person to have on the team.”

“Thank you.”

Keith glanced between them before deadpanning, “Really?” He didn’t sound convinced. 

“Yeah,” Pidge went on without looking away from her screen. “He’s creative, doesn’t get in the way, and Hunk, show Keith the thing he does.”

Keith cocked an eyebrow. “What thing?”

Hunk didn’t answer him. Instead, he pushed the papers across the table and held out his pencil. “Here you go, buddy.”

Lance took it and flashed him a grin before scooting forward. He put the eraser to his cheek, eyes moving over the schematics. They had diagrams and blueprints and off to the side was a list of equations that Hunk had scribbled out that needed solving before they could move forward in their building. He set the pencil to the paper and started writing. 

A few minutes later, he leaned back, sliding the papers across the table with a triumphant grin. “Ta-da!”

Keith blinked, then picked up the pages. Hunk looked over his shoulder, eyes scanning them quickly before beaming at Lance, giving him a thumbs up. Lance returned it. 

“You can double check it with a calculator if you need to, mullet,” Lance said, leaning back in his chair again. “But I guarantee they’re correct.”

Keith looked up at him, brow furrowed and expression incredulous. “How?”

Lance shrugged, grin fading into a confident smirk as he started twirling the wrench between his fingers. “Math comes easy to me. Just makes sense.”

“It’s like having a walking calculator and converter around,” Hunk added. 

Keith was still staring at him, and Lance preened under his expression. “Impressed?” He purred. 

Keith’s lips pursed, eyes darting down to the papers before flickering back up. “A little.” 

The sheepish smile that curved Keith’s lips combined with the soft look he was giving him was enough to make Lance lose his concentration and drop the wrench. It landed on his knee, and he jumped, yelping. 

Keith chuckled, hiding his smile with a hand. “A little less impressed now.”

Lance pushed himself to his feet, sticking his tongue out at him as he followed Hunk to get more materials. 

* * *

Lance was having trouble sleeping. 

Not that it was a new phenomenon. He’d been having trouble sleeping since he arrived, but it was getting past the  _ keep trying _ point and quickly approaching the  _ fuck it _ point. 

After hours of tossing and turning, he gave up.

He slipped down from his top bunk as silently as he could, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and slipped out into the hall on socked feet. 

His temporary dorm was in a different hall than it had been last time, but it wasn’t too hard to find his way. The corridors were dimmed but still light enough to see by. It was the emptiness that made it eery, a silence that made his ears ring. He kept a hand on the cinder block walls, rough texture keeping him grounded and comforted as his eyes darted around for any sign of movement, snapping at every sound.

And it was only because of this alert and cautious state that he caught sight of the familiar mop of dark hair, the quiet steps, the red hoodie. 

The observatory was empty, just like he predicted. A large room, mostly empty, with a domed ceiling that was dark and twinkled with stars. It was used to teach kids constellations by day, but by night, it was Lance’s private sanctuary, peaceful and quiet, a place for him to go to relax and calm his rampaging thoughts, a place that felt like home. 

He walked to the center of the room and lowered himself to the floor, lying back and propping his hands behind his head as he waited.

Keith walked in only moments later, door creaking open, a pause, hesitant steps. 

A pale face filled his vision, beautiful even in the shadows. “What’re you doing?” He asked, voice hushed and rough with sleep, but genuinely curious. 

“Stargazing,” he said simply, gesturing to the ceiling. 

Keith tilted his head back, and Lance took a moment to appreciate the curve of his neck. “But why?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Why’re you here?”

Keith shrugged. “Felt the bunk bed move. Saw you leave. Decided to follow you.”

“Sorry. I tried to be quiet.”

Another shrug. “I’m a light sleeper. Not a big deal.”

“Well, since you’re here anyway, wanna join me?” He asked, patting the rough carpet beside him. He thought he might have seen a smile on his face, but it could have just been the shadows. 

“Sure.”

Keith laid down next to him, hands resting across his stomach, their shoulders brushing. They laid in relaxed silence for several long moments. Moments that stretched and collided into one another, layering the two of them in blankets of darkness and comfort and the presence of the other, gazing up at the twinkling lights that were no replacement for the real thing but still pretty goddamn close. 

If he let his mind wander, loosened his grip on reality, he could pretend that the two of them were together, stargazing on a hill just outside town. He’d reach over and take Keith’s hand, thumb stroking over his knuckles. 

His head rolled to the side, catching sight of him, drinking him in. His profile was just as beautiful as the rest of him, accenting the angles of his features, dim lights from the ceiling softening his curves, pale skin glowing, fractured by shadows. His eyes were soft, dark pools sparking with the stars, refracting them like the calm depths of the ocean at night. His lips were relaxed, parted just slightly, practically begging for him to—

Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous, dangerous thoughts. Dangerous, tempting, self-indulgent thoughts. Thoughts that could so easily turn to actions, here in the dark, lit by the artificial stars, in a room and space that felt so far removed from reality, a place where possibilities became their own realities when pressed upon by will and desire. 

Lance snapped his gaze back to the ceiling. “Bet I can name more constellations than you.”

He could hear the smirk in Keith’s voice. “You’re on.”

As it turned out, they were pretty evenly matched, and it came right down to arguing over who said what first in hushed and harsh whispers, cut with breathy laughs and dry sarcasm. The argument ended without a clear winner, fading off to nothing as they laid on their sides facing each other, knees curled and bumping, heads bowed close, hands hovering in the space between. 

Lance could see the stars out of the corner of his eyes, but Keith held all his attention, drawing him in like a black hole. Hook, line, and sinker. He went fishing, and Lance was caught. Didn’t want to be thrown back. Keep him, gut him, do whatever he wanted. Lance was his. 

“What’s your favorite constellation?” He found himself asking.

Keith glanced down, and Lance liked to imagine a blush on his cheeks. “Draco…”

Lance snorted a short laugh, devolving into chuckles before he could slap a hand over his mouth to stifle them. “Oh my  _ god _ , you’re such an edgelord.”

Keith glared at him, plump lips pouty. “What’s  _ yours _ then?”

Lance grinned. “The big dipper.”

Keith blinked, brows pinching. “Really?”

Lance’s smile softened, eyes drifting down to the space between them. “Yeah. It was the first constellation that my older brother showed me, and it used to be the only one I could find. I taught it to my younger siblings, and whenever we went out at night, it was a competition to see who could spot it first.”

“That’s… actually really cute,” Keith said, soft and thoughtful.

Lance snorted, mock incredulous. “When’re you gonna realize I’m always cute?”

“I’m starting to.”

It was soft but genuine, and once the words sunk in, Lance felt heat creeping up his neck. A string of incomprehensible sounds and words flashed through his mind like a red panic light flashing. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Keith, but he was smiling. He knew he was. He could feel it, small and strong, refusing to budge. 

The silence stretched between them, awkward but not uncomfortable. Awkward in its newness, in its uncertainty, in all the possibilities that laid out before them but none of them yet taking shape. 

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Keith asked, voice soft as it broke through the moment, but tone curious with an edge of knowing that had Lance believing Keith was more perceptive than he gave him credit for. 

Lance shrugged, putting an elbow beneath him and propping his cheek up in his palm. His eyes were on the flow, fingers idly picking at the short, rough strands of the carpet. “Just a lot on my mind,” he said softly, and perhaps it was the comfort of their little bubble of space, or perhaps it was how they felt segmented from reality, but either way he found himself continuing. “Homesick, mostly. Which is ridiculous, because I’m only here for a couple months, but it just makes me think about how I’ll be starting college soon, and I’ll be leaving home for months at a time, and just… I dunno… I find it hard to make my brain stop sometimes. Just… thoughts, all the time.”

Keith reached out then, one hand falling over Lance’s without hesitation but still with a slowness that allowed Lance to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. Warm, calloused fingers covered his own, stroking almost reverently over his knuckles. It was comforting. It was intimate. It made his blood sing, and his stomach flutter. He wasn’t sure how he ever felt this room was grounding, because right now he felt weightless. 

“I get it,” he said simply, and though he didn’t elaborate, Lance got the impression that yeah… he really did. 

“Thanks,” he murmured, flipping his hands around to hold Keith’s properly, twining their fingers together slowly, warily, smiling when Keith forewent the hesitancy and pushed right into it, holding him tightly, like they were always meant to be that way. 

“What college are you going to?” He asked after a moment, voice curious and with an edge of something Lance couldn’t quite place. 

“Altea University.”

He glanced up in time to see that smile form. Slow and steady, like a wave caressing the shore without breaking, spreading his lips and pushing up his cheeks, crinkling his eyes. “Me, too.”

Lance felt his own smile creeping in slow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Breathless. Why was he so breathless. 

“I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other then…”

“I hope so.” 

“Hey, Keith?” Lance asked, feeling his gut twist and flutter, feeling the heat on his face and the nerves prickle along his skin. Electricity, sparking, firing. His breaths came short and shallow, as if breathing deeper might bring him to his senses and stop him. Voice barely above a whisper, like volume might shatter the fragile moment between them, the pocket of space that was brimming with possibilities and things left unsaid. 

“Yeah?” Equally soft, equally hesitant, looking up at Lance through those long lashes and the thick fringe of his hair. Dark eyes limpid pools of shadow that caught the stars, trapped them, until the sky was in his gaze, face pale as the moon. 

“Can I kiss you?” Heart in his throat, words foreign, barely heard above the ringing in his ears. 

“Yeah,” Breathless, barely audible, more spoken in the way he licked his lips, in the way he leaned forward, in the way his eyes caught Lance and refused to let go. 

He wasn’t sure who closed the distance. All he knew was that Keith was close, his breath fanning out over his lips, his cheeks. Noses brushing, a touch so light and yet so intimate. Lips on his, chapped but soft, firm with intention but pliable in eagerness. Shifting closer, legs intertwining. His own hand running through that thick hair, pulling it out of his pretty face and holding him close. Sounds escaping both of them, mixing and mingling in the dark space. Come together, break apart. Push and pull. Lips searching, claiming, again, again, again. Soft kisses, harder kisses. Sloppy with inexperience, but growing more focused, more purposeful, more confident as they learned each other. 

He felt dizzy, emotions and happiness filling his chest, making him feel light. He could barely feel the floor below them. All he could feel was Keith. Keith’s lips, Keith’s body, Keith’s hands. Keith, Keith. Keith. He was lost, and he didn’t want to be found. Floating away, higher, higher, gone. 

Somewhere between the earth and the stars, floating like zero gravity, weightless and breathless, Lance realized he might be in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. You've Got Me Like Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M - police detectives au - reluctant partners - very open flirting - violence implied - sexual tension and implications - 5,951 words
> 
> _Keith is a damn good cop and a damn fine detective. The problem? He’s a pretty terrible partner. No one likes working with him, but he doesn’t take it to heart. He’s rather work alone anyway._
> 
> _That is, until an old flame transfers to their precinct and requests to be Keith’s new partner. Lance McClain is unconventional, irritating, flirty, and just as beautiful as Keith remembers. For once, he thinks he’ll give this whole teamwork thing a shot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I know about detectives is Brooklynn 99

“I don’t need a new partner,” Keith said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the doorframe. 

“You do. That was never a question.” Shiro’s voice was even and bored. He continued to shuffle through the papers on his desk and gestured to Keith without looking up. “Come in and close the door.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed, full force of his scowl falling flat when Shiro wouldn’t even look at him, but he did as he’s asked. He closed the door with more force than necessary, feeling satisfaction as it rattled. Shiro lifted his gaze then, stare unimpressed and lips pressed into a thin line. 

“I don’t  _ want _ a new partner,” he tried again when he had Shiro’s attention. He stood in the room, refusing to take a seat across the desk, arms crossed and glaring at his boss. 

Shiro held his gaze for several long moments before he sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “This isn’t about what you  _ want _ , Keith. This is about protocol and safety.” He opened his eyes, pinning Keith with a hard stare, softened by underlying exhaustion. “You’re getting a new partner. End of story.”

Keith knew that voice. It was his chief voice. The one that brokered no argument. The one that took his childhood friend and closest confidant and turned him into his boss and superior. It was a voice Shiro rarely used on him, but when he did, Keith found himself buckling immediately. 

He breathed out a huff, shoulders slumping slightly as he looked away. He might end up going along with Shiro’s decision, but he wasn’t happy about it, and he wasn’t going to pretend like he was. 

“Not that it was  _ easy _ finding someone willing to work with you,” Shiro muttered, leaning back in his chair. He picked up several of the case files on his desk, thumbing through them. “You’re getting good at scaring them away.”

Keith shrugged, letting himself sink into one of the chairs across Shiro’s desk. “I don’t  _ try _ to scare them off.”

Shiro fixed him with a deadpan stare across the top of the files. “Do I need to go over the list of complaints I’ve gotten?” 

Keith pursed his lips, sinking a little further in his chair. “No...”

Shiro continued anyway, counting off on his fingers. “Refuses to listen to reason. Refuses to communicate. Doesn’t work well with others. Hostile toward partners and civilians alike. Anger issues. Unorganized. Hotheaded. Runs off into danger without backup. Need I go on?”

Keith huffed an exhale, eyes on the desk between them. “Not my fault they can’t keep up.”

Shiro starred, blank and tired. It was an argument they’d had a lot. Keith went through partners quickly. Sometimes they transferred departments. Sometimes they just asked for a new partner. All of them got fed up with him eventually, which was fine. Keith had never been a big fan of them either. He worked better solo. Always had. 

His last partner hadn’t even lasted two months.

If he wasn’t one of the best damn detectives under his command, he was pretty sure Shiro would have fired him a long time ago. Friends or not.

For a moment, Keith thought Shiro would argue, would push the issue like he always did, trying to drill in the importance of teamwork. But he didn’t. He sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his hair, scratching the back of his head as he looked back down at his files. 

“Thankfully, I’ve already found you a new partner.”

Keith’s eyebrows rose. “Already?”

“He’s new. Just transferred over from a nearby precinct.”

Keith’s expression dropped into a frown. “You’re sticking me with the new guy?”

“Actually,” Shiro said, tossing his files onto the desk, seemingly giving up reading them while Keith was in the room. He leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms of it with his fingers laced in front of him. “He requested you,” he said, amusement playing in the undertones of his voice, eyes crinkling just slightly. 

Keith’s brows furrowed, frown deepening. “He requested  _ me? _ Who the hell would do that?”

“That,” Shiro said, making his chair bouncing slightly. His amusement faded into honest curiosity, idly thoughtful. “Is a good question. But quite frankly, I don’t care. As long as he’s willing to work with you, that’s good enough for me.”

Keith shrugged, letting his expression relax into indifference. He was curious, yes. No one ever requested him. He had a reputation. Good cop, bad partner. He wasn’t unaware of the fact that others in the precinct referred to being assigned as his partner as  _ doing their time _ . 

“As long as he can keep up with me. I’m not carrying some rookie. If he can’t pull his weight, I’m leaving him behind.”

Shiro wasn’t even phased. He simply regarded Keith with barely contained exasperation. Keith knew, however, that there was fondness mixed up in there. Without it, Shiro would have gotten tired of him a long time ago. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. He has high marks from his last precinct. Don’t know why he transferred, but I’m glad he’s on our team now. I can only hope we finally found someone to put up with you.”

Keith felt his lips quirk in a small, wry smile. “Do you really believe that?”

Shiro gave him a flat look. “Keith,  _ try _ not to scare him off, okay?”

“I never  _ try _ .”

“Well this time actually try  _ not _ to. For me? Please?”

Keith quirked an eyebrow. “Are you seriously using the puppy dog eyes on me? Here. In your office. While in uniform.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Keith.”

He sighed, a huff of frustration and defeat. “Fine. But only if he doesn’t drag me down.”

“Fine.” Shiro’s attention was caught, gaze sliding past Keith to the window that looked out beyond his office. His lips quirked into a small smile. “Speak of the devil.” He checked the watch on his wrist, eyebrows raising as he nodded. “Right on time. I’m impressed.”

There was a knock at the door, and Keith stiffened before forcing himself to relax. He didn’t really care about good first impressions. There was no point in pretending to be someone he wasn’t when his partner would just find out eventually anyway. So he didn’t smile. He didn’t stand. He didn’t offer a hand or a polite greeting. He didn’t welcome the guy to the job. 

He’d play nice for Shiro’s sake, but he wasn’t going to play  _ that _ nice.

He stayed in his seat, watching Shiro as he gestured for whoever it was to come in. 

Keith waited until the door closed before putting his hand to his knees and pushing himself to his feet, a loud, tired exhale leaving his lips. He turned then, scowl already painting his features, ready to size up his new partner—

Only to have his jaw go slack and the breath catch in his throat. 

_ Beautifully brown skin. Flawless and smooth. Soft to the touch but pulled tight over lean muscles and a strong frame. Skin that rippled as he moved. Skin dotted with freckles and moles and beauty marks, dancing across his nose, his shoulders, his back, his hips.  _

_ Dark brown hair, fluffy and curling at the ends. Hair that was curlier in the mornings. Hair that was a mess, mused by Keith’s fingers and sticking up at odd angles. Hair that clung to his face with sweat. Hair splayed out over the pillow as his head arched back into it. _

_ Blue, blue eyes. Blue eyes that lit up when teasing. Blue eyes that hardened like ice when mad. Blue eyes that wavered when upset. Blue eyes that held shadows when uncertain and shamed. Blue eyes that softened when fond. Blue eyes that hazed over when lost in pleasure. Eyes that were hungry and needy and lidded when gazing down at Keith’s body. Eyes that were confident and teasing when gazing up at him.  _

_ Lips like heaven. Soft. Smooth. Flawless. Lips pulled thin when frustrated. Lips bitten when nervous. Lips pursed when pouting. Lips pulled tight when upset. Lips relaxed and parted when surprised, when thinking, when curious, when awed. Lips pulled up into a smile, a smirk. Stretched wide in a grin. Red and bruised from Keith’s biting. Wet and stretched around him. _

Lips tugged up into a small smirk, pushing up his cheeks, crinkling at his eyes. Knowing eyes. Knowing smirk. Cocky posture as he turned to face Keith. 

A hand held out to him, innocent in gesture but thick with meaning. 

_ Nice hands. Soft hands. Hands that could hold a gun, unwavering and sure. Hands that could comfort and soothe. Hands that held him tight, pushing him up against walls. Hands that caressed him like he was awed that he could at all. Hands that gripped him roughly, unwilling to let go as his body shook with pleasure. Fingers long, slender. Fingers that plucked at guitar strings. Fingers that tapped pencils. Fingers that pulled the trigger of a gun. Fingers that tugged at his hair and curled into the bed sheets. Fingers that gripped his thighs and worked him open.  _

Keith stared at the innocently offered hand before meeting those eyes, dancing with barely contained amusement, glee, satisfaction. Saw the smirk, the smirk he loved and hated, and longed to wipe it off his face. 

Distantly, Keith knew he was staring. He could tell by the growing confidence and cockiness in Lance’s expression. He could feel his jaw had gone slack, lips parted. He knew his eyes were wide. He knew he was no longer scowling. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Not when he was face to face with Lance again. 

An old friend. An old flame. Nights spent hidden away. Moments slipped from the day as they pulled each other into empty rooms. Days at the garrison, days from when they were in training, spent in a heated rivalry. Night spent in each other’s arms. 

Keith hadn’t seen him in years. Not since they were assigned to different precincts. He assumed they’d never see each other again. Keith wasn’t good at keeping up with things, and apparently neither was he. It had been a fling. Moments stolen. Growing feelings discarded as they were sent to different areas. Buried. Pushed aside. Forgotten. Relieved only as fond memories of what once was and what would never be. 

And now Lance was here. In front of him. Holding out a hand. Smirk firmly in place as those blue, blue eyes danced. Lips moving as they formed words in that achingly familiar voice that set his blood to boil. “Hey, partner.”

“Keith.” He heard Shiro’s voice distantly, though a fog, mind still reeling and taking extra time for the words to sink in, let alone form meaning. “This is your new partner. Lance McClain.”

* * *

Keith was trying. He really was. 

They were in one of the smaller briefing rooms, shoved back in the corner of the building. It was Keith’s usual room, and it was where he kept his board. Shiro let him keep it here, in a space that he could call his own, knowing that he hated when people touched it. 

He’d spent the last hour trying to catch Lance up to speed on their current case. The one that had been dragging them all through the mud for months. They were close to bringing down the Galra, or at least part of the organization. He could feel it in his gut. But they were missing something. Something important. A piece of the puzzle that could spring them into legal action. 

He just... didn’t know what. 

Shiro was no doubt hoping that a fresh pair of eyes would help find something they missed, but so far, Lance had barely glanced at the board. 

While Keith talked, he sat in one of the chairs, feet propped up on the table, head tilted back and a pen balanced between his nose and upper lip. 

“Are you even  _ trying _ to pay attention?” Keith finally snapped, stepping over to the table and swatting Lance’s feet off of it. 

His whole body jerked as his legs fell to the floor, nearly losing his balance but somehow managing to stay in his chair. He slapped the pen down on the table, forearms crossed heavily on the surface as he fixed Keith with a glare, lips pursed into a pout. “Of course, I am!”

Keith crossed his arms over his chest, fixing him with a flat stare.

Lance’s brows pinched, frown deepening. “I am!”

“Then what have I been saying?”

Lance leaned back, crossing one ankle over his other knee and hooking his hands behind his head. “Well, you’ve been  _ saying _ a lot, but all I’ve been hearing is that you’re a huge nerd who loves conspiracy boards,” he said, lips twisting into a teasing smirk. 

Keith frowned, eyelid twitching. “Lance.”

“Seriously, you must have either had practice with this before or be super organized. And dude, I’ve seen your desk. You’re not organized.”

“My desk is organized,” Keith huffed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes shifting across the room.

“Minimal? Yes. Organized? No.” Lance said, smirk stretching wider. He turned away then, gesturing to the board behind him. “But this is some impressive shit. I’ve never seen one this well done. You’ve obviously had practice.”

Keith glanced at him, eyebrow raised and eyes narrowed in suspicion. His lips pursed. “Was that... a compliment?”

Lance’s grin was brilliant for just a second before he schooled it down into something more teasing. But the smile was still in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, shooting Keith a wink. Heat coiled in his gut before rising up his spine, warming the back of his neck. “Does that mean I’m right?”

Keith looked away, eyes going to the board and roaming over it without really focusing. “Maybe...” He mumbled. 

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

“Come on, Keith. New partner bonding.”

“Fine,” he said, turning back to Lance, watching with amusement as the man perked up, back straightening, eyes going wide and lips stretching into a smile. “If you can look at this board and figure out a new lead, I’ll tell you.”

Keith felt his own smirk curl at his lips, a silent laugh crinkling his eyes as Lance’s whole body instantly slumped, pout forming and brows furrowing. To Keith’s surprise, however, he pushed himself to his feet and muttered a resolute and exasperated, “ _ Fine _ ,” before sliding over the top of the table and walking up to the board. 

He stood in front of it, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand idly scratching at his jaw. Keith stood back and watched him. Lance’s brows were pinched, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were sharp and calculating, flitting across the board, taking everything in, reading the notes Keith had made, both evidence and suspicions. 

Keith felt oddly exposed. He always made impressive boards. He knew this. But Lance was giving it more attention right now than anyone ever had before. He realized that he  _ wanted _ Lance to be impressed, and that revelation startled him. 

Lance asked a few questions, pointing at the board here and there. Keith answered them, shortly and concisely. Lance only nodded his understanding each time, eyes constantly roaming over the pinned things. 

When he reached out to pluck something off the board, Keith stiffened. Lance froze immediately, frowning slightly as he pulled his hand back. When he asked permission to rearrange a few things, it wasn’t asked with a tone of irritation, judgement, exasperation, annoyance, disbelief. Which were all things Keith was used to. It was kind. Soft. Understanding. Non-judgemental. Patient. 

Heat rose to his cheeks as he looked away, shrugging as he mumbled an offhanded affirmative. 

Curiosity dragged his gaze back, however, as Lance began systematically and fervently rearranging things, like he had to do so before the train of thought left him, while it was still fresh. He mumbled to himself as he went, and Keith listened attentively, stepping up beside him to look at the board. 

Turned out, a fresh pair of eyes was exactly what they needed. 

He distantly realized that Lance was staring at him, grin stretched wide as he waited for Keith’s verdict. 

“This is... impressive,” he said, voice awed as he looked everything over. This gave them a whole new angle. A whole new way of looking at the case. New places to search and new leads to follow. 

Lance’s smile dimmed into something more bashful as he shrugged. “It was nothing. So...” He said, eyes alight with mischief. 

Keith glanced at him, eyes roaming his expression before he turned away, back to the board. “I have a board at home about cryptids.”

“Oh my god,” Lance whispered, awed and excited, like it was the best thing he’d heard all week. “I have to see it.”

“No.”

“Come on, Keith. Please?”

“No.”

“Invite me over, man. I wanna see it.” His voice dropped. When Keith glanced at him, he had his chin tilted down, gazing up at him through his lashes, eyebrows waggling in a way that was no doubt meant to be suggestive but simply came off looking ridiculous. 

Keith rolled his eyes, using the momentum to spin on his heel, ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine and the pick up of his heartbeat. “No.”

“I’ll make you dinner,” Lance sang.

Keith paused at the door, turning to see Lance’s grin. Cocky. Confident. Far too full of himself, but incredibly gorgeous and endearing nonetheless. “I’ll think about it,” Keith said flatly, lips twitching as Lance loudly  _ whooped _ . “Now come on, let’s go talk to Pidge and Hunk in forensics.”

* * *

“Can you at least  _ try _ not to look like a cop?” Lance asked, leaning forward over his shoulder, lips moving against his ear, voice low and teasing with an edge of exasperation. 

Ignoring their nearness and how it made his stomach flutter, Keith looked down, eyeing his clothes. Simple, but nice. Black jeans. Boots. V-neck shirt. He didn’t look that bad, right? Glancing around, he found several other patrons of the club were dressed similarly. He didn’t stand out in the slightest. 

“I don’t?” He said, confusion twisting his features as he turned to glance at Lance. 

The man rolled his eyes, leaning his weight back on his heels, hands shoved unceremoniously in his pockets. A small smile shadowed the edges of his lips. “It’s not about your  _ clothes _ , Keith. It’s about how you hold yourself.” He took a step forward, putting them nearly chest to chest. Keith tilted his head to hold Lance’s gaze, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart as Lance’s smirk widened, eyes lidding even as he teased. “And right now you look like you have a stick up your ass. Just...” He reached out, putting his hands on Keith’s shoulders. Warm, solid, strong. “Relax.”

Keith’s lips twisted into a frown, and he turned his head, eyes looking out over the crowded club. “I just... this isn’t my scene.” 

He glanced back in time to see Lance’s amused smile. “You don’t say.”

Keith glared, hitting his arm with the back of his hand. Lance laughed, taking him by the wrist and dragging him deeper into the club. “Come on, just follow my lead.”

Lance led them through the club. Lights flashed, temporarily lighting the shadows and leaving imprints of writhing bodies before fading to black again. Music pounded, pulsing through and air and through the floor, rattling his chest. He shrunk away from the people around them, frowning whenever someone came too close. 

Lance tugged him along, keeping him close, using himself as a shield to give Keith space, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of his wrist, on his palm. 

When Lance stopped at the bar, ordering two cheap beers, Keith narrowed his eyes at him. “We shouldn’t be drinking on the job.”

Lance took one of the bottles, lifting it to his lips while sliding the other across the bar top to Keith. “Do you want to stand out or not?”

Keith grumbled, but took the offering anyway, nursing it slowly and more out of habit than anything. 

He lost track of time as they hovered near the bar, exchanging idle conversation that neither of them really paid attention to. Their eyes scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of their mark or other suspicious activity. Keith worried they might stick out for it, but he shouldn’t have. Whenever someone glanced at them curiously, Lance would smirk, wink, and shoot finger guns. The results were mostly negative, but even those who giggled didn’t approach them. 

Keith snorted at his antics, and Lance shot him a more genuine grin. 

Keith was on his second beer, shirt clinging to his back with sweat from the heat of the club, when he spotted them. “ _ There _ ,” he hissed, sliding off his barstool and slipping into the crowd. He didn’t know if Lance was behind him, and he didn’t bother to check. He kept his eyes on the three figures retreating to the back of the club. One large, thickly built, spiky hair and a metal arm. Another man, tall and skinny. A third figure, shorter, hunched, hood pulled over their face. 

Keith wove through the bodies of the club with far more dexterity than he had earlier, shoving through unapologetically when he needed to. They disappeared into a back hallway, and Keith darted after them. The hallway split, one way leading to the bathrooms, and another leader further into the depths. He slowed when he saw the figures retreat behind a door, and slipped up to it, back pressed to the wall. 

He tried to listen, but all he could hear was the blare of the music. 

“Jesus, you can really move when you want to,” Lance said, huffing as he caught up to Keith, muttering beneath his breath. He paused, eyeing the door, face falling into something more serious. “They in there?” Keith nodded, and Lance reached into his pocket, pulling out a device. “Sweet. Let’s hope Pidge’s gadget is really all it’s cracked up to be.”

The device itself was small, dark, and nondescript. Innocent and something that would be easily ignored, even while in plain sight. Lance bent down, slipping it just beneath the crack in the door, next to the frame so it was less likely to be stepped on when someone walked through. It was a recording device Pidge had designed, somehow able to pick up the more subtle sounds of conversation and ignore the big, pounding beats of the club’s music. 

Now they just had to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Both of them pressed close, neither of them willing to speak, barely daring to breathe, eyes locked on the door or darting down the hall whenever someone drunkenly stumbled to the bathrooms. 

Then the voices beyond the door were louder, footsteps clear. The door handle jiggled before pausing, voices muffled and hushed just beyond. 

Panic sprung to life in his chest, lungs tightening as adrenaline raced through his veins. He took a step back, hand dragging against the wall as he muttered a curse under his breath. His eyes darted around, down the hallway. They could make a run for it, but he wasn’t sure they’d make it before the door opened. Fleeing was a surefire way to arouse suspicion. But he didn’t have a plan B—

Hands grabbed his shoulders, steady and firm as they shoved him back against the wall. A body pressed against his, long and lean, warm and hard. A thigh pressed between his, pushing up against him. He gasped, lips parting. Lance’s hands curled into the front of his shirt and dove in, lips to lips, tongue pushing its way into his mouth, relentless and eager. 

Keith stiffened for only a moment before melting against him, arms wrapping around him out of desperation and familiarity. His hands clutched at the material of Lance’s shirt, twisting into the fabric and holding on, desperate for an anchor. 

And then he kissed back in earnest, eyes drifting closed as he tilted his head, groaning low and needy in his throat as he slotted their lips together more firmly. It was just like he remembered it, and yet completely different, completely new. He wanted more,  _ needed _ more. God, he forgot how addicting Lance was, how good he felt against him, how sweet he tasted, how deliciously eager he was when he pressed himself against Keith, how he bucked and moaned when Keith bit at his lips. 

He door opened, and Keith barely noticed. He tensed as the figures paused, no doubt surprised. He felt Lance stiffen against him and pressed a hand flat to his lower back to soothe him, loving the way Lance’s kiss turned sweet and soft, hands relaxing just slightly but clinging all the more for it. 

And then a huff, a scoff of disgust, footsteps as the figures walked away, retreating back down the hallway. 

Keith didn’t want to be the first to break away, and he got the impression that neither did Lance. Their kiss turned less urgent, but no less needy. Hunger and heat burned low in his gut, rushing through his veins. 

“I think they’re gone,” Lance whispered against his lips, voice breathy and hoarse. 

“Yeah,” Keith muttered, nipping at his lower lip, chasing him as he pulled away an inch. 

“We should bring this info back to Pidge,” Lance tried again, sounding reluctant, body unmoving even as he glanced to where the device waited innocently beneath the door. 

“Yeah,” Keith breathed, reaching forward and pulling Lance back in. 

Lance met his lips eagerly.

* * *

Keith had always had a love-hate relationship with stakeouts.

He hated the wait. The anticipation. He hated sitting idle. But he loved the silence. Didn’t mind the peace. Most grew bored by it, but Keith thrived in it. 

He was learning very quickly, however, that he loved and hated stakeouts with Lance for entirely different reasons. 

Lance was distracting. With his bouncing legs. His tapping fingers. His incessant humming. The constant fiddling. The constant babble. Observations. Idle thoughts. 

Lance was distracting. With his casual smirks, eyes smoldering and heat in his voice. With his wandering hands, light and teasing, eager and needy, hesitant and gentle. 

“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to handcuff you to the bed,” Keith said, shoulder and hip leaning against the wall next to the window, fingers raised to crack the blinds. The building across the street was still. Not a soul in sight. The camera was poised next to him, but it had been nearly eighteen hours, and they had barely used it.

Lance’s hands slipped from Keith’s hips up beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers splayed wide as they inched up his sides. When Keith, despite his verbal protests, didn’t push him away, Lance stepped in closer, hips pushing up against him, firm chest to his back as he leaned in close. 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” He asked, voice pitched low and molten. His fingers ran along his stomach, along the hem of his jeans, tracing his hip bones and playing with the hair beneath his navel. Keith’s muscles twitched beneath his touch, goosebumps rising on his skin. 

“We’re on a stakeout,” he said, casual and calm but not quite harsh enough to deter Lance’s touches. He found himself leaning back against Lance’s sturdy frame.

“So?” He could feel Lance’s smirk against his neck, long fingers dipping beneath his waistband. “Nothing’s happening right now.”

“It could...” Keith muttered, voice quickly becoming more breathless. They both knew he was arguing for argument’s sake. His protests were a show, a necessity in the game they played, but there wasn’t a drop of heart in them. 

“Then you keep watch,” Lance whispered against his skin, low and breathy, deep and rough, sending shivers down Keith’s spine. His fingers dipped lower, purposeful, confident. “Let me take care of you.”

Keith said nothing as Lance pressed his lips to his neck, but his tilted his head to the side, back arching and lips parting in a silent gasp. 

* * *

Impulsive.

That’s what Shiro always said about him. Said in that voice that wasn’t entirely accusing, but definitely disapproving. 

Impulsive. Rash. Hotheaded.

It helped him out often. Helped him solve cases. Following his gut rarely led him down the wrong path. It made him a good detective. Made him worth his payroll. 

But it also got him into trouble. He often left his partners behind. He didn’t mean to. He simply followed his gut, and when his gut said  _ run _ , he ran. His partners weren’t always ready to dive after him headlong into danger. So he often found himself not only in trouble, but alone. 

It was fine, though. He always got himself out of it. But each time he found a gun pointed at his chest or a knife at his throat, he wondered if it would be the last. It wasn’t a comforting thought, but he’d long since come to terms with it. 

Now, with Sendak standing tall and confident in the dark alley, gun pointed at his heart, Keith froze, raising his hands slowly. Sendak smirked, wicked and gleeful. It was still uncertain whether he’d just shoot Keith for the hell of it. The gun was his own, stolen from him in the scuffle that had ensued after chasing him down into this alleyway. He could feel scrapes burning on his knees and elbows, the sharp pin pricks of a cut on his arm, the ache of bruises forming on his ribs and along his jaw. 

He held Sendak’s gaze, jaw clenched against the pain, mind already whirling, trying to figure out how he was going to get out of this one—

“Not to crash the party, but I’d appreciate it if you stopping pointing a gun at my partner.”

Keith’s breath caught in his throat at the familiar voice behind him, light and confident, almost teasing, but pitched low and with an edge. His blood ran cold, heart skipping a beat before pounding into overdrive, pulsing fire through his veins. 

Lance had kept up with him. Lance was here. Lance had his back. 

He turned slowly, glancing over his shoulder to the mouth of the alleyway. Lance stood there, silhouetted in the light of street lamps. He stood strong and tall, gun drawn and pointed at Sendak. Unwavering. Steady. Despite the lightness of his voice, his eyes were hard, dark pools refracting the light. His expression was steel. It was something Keith rarely saw, and it sent heat coiling throughout his body. 

Then he was grabbed, rough hands spinning him around, back pressed to a large body as a thick arm wound tight around his throat. Cold metal pressed to his temple. He struggled, more out of reflex than anything, nails biting into Sendak’s arm, feet trying to find purchase. Sendak lifted him to his toes, forearm digging into his throat, pressure making dots dance at the edges of his vision.

“Drop the gun, or I shoot,” Sendak growled, voice close to Keith’s ear and breath vile. 

“Keith,” Lance said, casual and calm, even and soothing, despite the urgency that clipped his words. It caught Keith’s attention instantly. He stared at his partner, but Lance’s eyes were solidly on the man behind him. He inched forward slowly, feet sliding along the concrete. 

“Don’t move!” Sendak barked.

“Do you trust me?”

Keith took him in. All of him. The cold and calculating gaze. The determined set to his jaw and press of his lips. The way he held his gun, unwavering and steady, pointed at them, finger hovering next to the trigger, eyes lined up on his shot. Stare unblinking. Certain. Confident. 

In the garrison, it was no secret that Lance had been the best shot. He always hit his mark. Always. 

“Yes,” Keith breathed, entire body relaxing in Sendak’s grip.

He wasn’t sure if Lance heard him, but his eyes flickered, gazes locking for a second, understanding passing between them.

And then Lance took the shot. 

As soon as the pressure around his neck was gone, Keith was whirling around, tackling his assailant to the ground and knocking the gun away. It happened quickly after that, reflex and training kicking in to render Sendak useless after just moments of struggle. 

Lance coming to stand next to them, gun pointed at him, also helped. 

Knee in Sendak’s back, cuffing his wrists roughly behind his back, Keith made note of the bullet wound in his shoulder, staining his shirt dark and leaving an inky puddle on the ground. 

“Nice shot, sharpshooter,” he said, hauling the man to his feet and shoving him toward the mouth of the alleyway, hands still on the cuffs. 

He spared a glance toward Lance. His eyes remained on Sendak, gun still pointed, but his expression was more relaxed than it had been moments before, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Thanks, babe, but try not to run off on your own next time.”

Keith met his eyes, his own smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “No promises.”

Lance huffed, trying to sound exasperated but only coming across as amused. “You’re lucky I’m here to watch your ass.”

Keith pushed Sendak ahead of him, glancing over his shoulder at Lance. “And how’s the view?” He asked, voice deep and coy, roughly shaking Sendak when the man scoffed loudly. 

Lance paused, gun still held up and steady, even as his head tilted, eyes roaming down Keith’s body, slow and appreciative, expression amused and gaze heavy as his lidded eyes returned to Keith’s. “Fucking beautiful.”

* * *

“You two are working out well,” Shiro said, using that tone of voice that was saved for casual observations that weren’t casual at all. He sat at his desk, shuffling papers without really looking at him. Had Keith not known him so well, he might have missed the teasing edge to his voice, hidden so cleverly, so subtly. 

But Keith did know him, and Shiro wasn’t subtle at all. 

“He’s alright,” Keith said with a shrug, leaning against the wall and gazing out the window of Shiro’s office into the precinct. 

Lance sat at his desk instead of his own, always insisting that Keith’s chair was more comfortable. He leaned back, amusing and distracting their coworkers with his antics, grin wide on his lips as he tried to balance various office supplies on his forehead.

“He’s stuck with you the longest out of any partner, save for me,” Shiro said, voice pointed. “Nearly six months so far.”

Keith hummed thoughtfully. “Seven, actually.”

“Thanks for proving my point,” Shiro said, chuckling beneath his breath. Keith could feel the heat rising up his neck, crawling along his cheeks. He kept his eyes on the window, gazing beyond to where his partner sat. “Despite how loudly he complains about you, I haven’t gotten a single official complaint. I’m impressed. I think he actually likes you.”

“Yeah,” Keith said, unable to stop the small tilt to his lips, the ghost of a smile as he watched Lance laugh. “Yeah, I think he does.”

“And I’m taking that smile as an admission that you like him, too?”

“If you tell him, I’ll put salt in your coffee every day for an entire month.”

“Just try not to scare this partner away.”

“For once,” Keith said, voice soft and thoughtful, almost awed in his own surprise. “I really fucking hope he stays.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. A Cupid's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - cupid au - cupid Keith - cupids are reincarnated human souls - oblivious pining - falling in love - 6,910 words
> 
> _Keith’s first life hadn’t been a great one. He never managed to feel love or to fall in love, and thus fate has given him a second chance._
> 
> _Cupids. Loveless humans reborn, puppets tied to the whims of love, given the opportunity to fall and get a second chance at life. Except Keith doesn’t want to fall. He’s a good cupid. He never misses his mark. He trusts his gut. He has a flawless track record… until he comes across Lance McClain. The one person that Keith can’t seem to hit, no matter how hard he tries._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going out of the chronological order that these were written so I can give you a cupid au for Valentine's Day! <33

Keith has always been a creature of instinct and intuition.

A hard life drilled that into him. He learned to act fast. Learned to trust his gut. Let his impulses steer him through life. He was good at parkour for that reason. Good at martial arts. Good at racing. Never got caught up in questioning himself, in doubting himself. He was an act first, think later kind of guy.

It served him well, he thinks. He doesn’t have much regret about life. He made sure of that. He had hardships, but what life doesn’t? 

Sure, he never really felt love for anyone— romantic or platonic— but that was fine. He was a lone wolf breezing through life. 

He hadn’t realized that the whole  _ never felt love thing _ was, in essence, so pathetic that he would be given a second chance. Didn’t realize he would be reborn as a cupid, destined to help others feel love until he felt it himself. But he rolled with the punches as he always had. 

He thinks the whole cupid thing is to help people like him learn what love is. It’s supposed to prepare them for their second chance. Supposed to get them all introspective and wistful as they watch humans fall in love around them.

It’s supposed to, but it hasn’t. At least not for him. But, as it turns out, he’s  _ really _ good at being a cupid. 

The whole instinct thing? It comes into play in this strange afterlife. 

Because their job as cupids is to be able to recognize the first spark of potential love— and then shoot it. Which does some sort of cupid love magic, makes that spark  _ explode _ , and gives that human the push they need to fall in love. 

Because some humans are more resilient than others. Some fall easily, but some doubt and overthink and talk themselves out of it. Some have walls too thick for that spark to penetrate. Some have dug their feet into the dirt and refuse to budge. These are the people cupids have to help. The people who need gentle guidance. 

Or, you know… a hard shove.

But recognizing that spark isn’t always easy. Keith has known plenty of cupids who struggle with it at first. Because it’s not just a clean cut sign. It’s not an assignment. They don’t get flashing neon lights and a highlighted bullseye that says _shoot_ _here_.

They get a  _ feeling _ . Deep in their gut. A pull in their chest. This strange tingling sensation in the back of their mind that trickles down their spine like ice. It’s an itch beneath their skin and a twitch in their fingers. It starts out subtle enough, but as the cupid gets closer— gets warmer— the feeling grows. It becomes overwhelming. Fills their chest, tight and suffocating. Churns in their gut and crawls beneath their skin. Until they feel like a bowstring themselves, taught and tight and ready to snap. 

That’s what the spark does to them. Every spark a human feels echoing and latching onto a cupid. They don’t know the pattern. It could be random. It could be proximity. It could be something entirely different. Keith has never really thought about it. He’s only just… felt the spark, hit his target, done his job. 

And he’s very good at his job. 

Because he doesn’t question himself. Doesn’t bother with it. He feels the pull… and he follows. And when he sees someone… he just  _ knows _ . He can see the echo of the spark in their eyes. He can see it shimmering across their skin. He can see it radiate in their energy. 

Some cupids question things… doubt… over think… they wonder if this is the right moment— the right time— the right person that pulled them— 

They hesitate.

Keith doesn’t. 

When he feels that pull at his gut, he just  _ knows _ . And he runs with it. Hits his mark. Watches the magic ignite. And then he just… leaves. Moves on to the next. 

He’s very good at being a cupid— actually kind of likes it, likes making a difference and doing some good— but he hasn’t really… learned his lesson. 

Hasn’t really learned about love, or whatever. Hasn’t gotten his second chance yet. 

But that’s fine. 

Life as a cupid is a fairly easy one. 

He doesn’t need to sleep, but he does go into meditative states that last several hours, recharging his body and refueling his energy. 

There’s a cupid realm of sorts— a sort of in-between space where they can exist, and live, and relax, and talk to each other, and just… well,  _ live _ . But Keith doesn’t spend much time there. Not anymore, at least. Not since Shiro fell and got his second chance. Keith has always loved Earth— loved seeing and trying new things— and now that he has wings and invisibility, it makes that a lot easier. 

That’s another thing. Invisibility. It’s a natural state for cupids. He  _ can _ make himself visible to humans, if he chooses— you know, just without the wings. He’s also heard of humans seeing beyond the veil— catching a glimpse of them in moments between sleep and wakefulness, out of the corner of their eye. 

It’s not hard to see where the whole idea of angels and fallen angels came from. 

Anyway, point is, Keith has the ability to explore and enjoy life without all the responsibilities that come with being human. It’s nice, and not nearly as lonely as Shiro seems to think he is. He’s used to this. He didn’t exactly have a lot of ties to people when he was alive either. 

He’s comfortable like this. Content, really. 

Keith likes life as a cupid far more than he ever liked it as a human. Things are easier this way. Far more simple. He feels like he’s actually  _ doing somethin _ g. And… as long as he’s helping others fall in love, giving them a chance at a full life, what does it matter that he’s never felt it himself?

* * *

“You’re really funny, you know that?” It’s said with a giggle, soft and genuine. There’s a sparkle in her eyes and a fondness in her shy smile. She’s practically radiating, that spark of potential love inside her pulsing— hopeful and eager.

But she’s not the reason Keith is here. No, she’s already embraced her feelings. There’s nothing more Keith can do to help her. 

Well… except hit the idiot sitting across the table from her.

He exhales sharply, a half-scoff, half-snort sort of laugh. He lifts his coffeecup to his lips, smiling behind it. “Don’t let my friends hear you say that. They’ll be mad you’re encouraging my bad puns.”

It’s light-hearted and teasing, but there’s… nothing more to it. No depth. No fondness. No breathlessness or nervousness or shyness. It’s simply… casual. Friendly. Not unkind, but nothing more. 

Still, he must have felt _some_ _sort_ of spark. After all, Keith felt himself pulled here. 

Pulled to Lance McClain’s side. Yet again. 

He feels a deep ache of pity for the girl sitting across from him in the cozy little coffeeshop. A co-worker, he thinks. From what Keith has gathered while eavesdropping, they know each other well enough to be friendly. But he has the sense that it won’t go any deeper than that. 

After all, Lance is the only person Keith has ever been drawn to who he’s missed. 

Though he knows it’s not his fault, he feels… a little guilty about that. Lance is the only blemish on his otherwise flawless track record. He never misses. Never hesitates. And yet somehow, something  _ always _ goes wrong when he aims for Lance McClain. 

Lover Boy Lance, his friends teasingly call him. He has a long trail of broken hearts in his wake. It’s not that he’s  _ trying _ to hurt them. Keith can see that much. Lance honestly and truly tries. He clearly  _ wants _ to fall in love. But that spark that always pulls Keith to him… he never lets himself feel it.

And Keith always misses whenever he tries to help. 

But he refuses to give up. Refuses to ask another cupid for help. It has to be some weird twist of fate that’s interfering. Maybe Lance isn’t meant to fall for anyone he’s dated so far. And if that’s the case, if it’s some outside force that’s interfering, that’s none of Keith’s business. He’s just here to do his job. 

Follow the tug. Locate the target. Shoot. 

“I’d love to meet your friends sometime,” the woman says, leaning forward over the table, chin resting in her palm, smile sweet. 

Keith reaches behind him, fingers wrapping around the handle of his knife. He pulls it from its sheath in an easy, practiced motion. Using the momentum to adjust his grip— pull back his arm— take aim—

Lance laughs, and even from across the room, Keith can see how uncomfortable he is. It makes him pause briefly— but  _ no _ . He felt the tug. He knows Lance felt a spark. It’s not Keith’s job to wonder or worry about the love that follows. It’s only his job to help people embrace that spark.

“I’m afraid they’d embarrass me more than anything,” Lance says, tilting his cup back too far as he takes a hearty gulp. 

His neck is long and slender. His Adam’s apple bobs. The light from the late afternoon sun gives his smooth skin a golden hue. 

Keith throws, quick and sure—

Lance tips his head too far, coffee spilling down the sides of his mouth and dripping down into his lap. “Oh, shit,” he says, snapping forward in his panic, leaning over the table, slamming the cup down with one hand while the other goes to his chin to catch excess liquid—

And Keith’s knife sails right over his head, imbedding in the wall behind him— and then slowly dissolving into mist. 

The woman chuckles, getting up to go get Lance some napkins. And while she’s gone, Lance sighs, smile falling as his eyes drift to the window of the cafe. Sad. Empty. Bored. 

Keith grits his jaw, a fist slamming against a wall, causing the people around him to jump when a painting falls to the ground. His feathers ruffle, irritation simmering in his veins. He never misses, but he  _ always _ misses Lance. 

And he’s tired of it.

If anyone deserves love, it’s Lance. He hates seeing him like that. So lost and forlorn. 

He can already feel the energy gathering at his back, his knife slowly reforming in its sheath. But they only get one arrow— or in his case, knife, because as soon as he realized that the whole bow and arrow thing was optional, he picked throwing knives instead— per spark. It’ll take a few hours for it to fully regenerate, and by then, Lance’s spark will have fully faded. 

“Next time,” he vows under his breath, watching Lance force a smile as the woman comes back to the table. “I’ll hit you next time.”

* * *

His knife sails through the air, straight and true— only for Lance to spin around and step away, grabbing another bouquet as Keith’s knife hits the side of the delivery truck and clatters uselessly to the ground. 

And there, glinting mockingly in the sun, the beautiful cupid’s knife begins to dissolve— wasted and ineffective.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Keith hisses, running his fingers through his hair and clenching his fist, pulling tightly at the roots. 

“Thanks so much for your help,” Lance says , grinning as he handles a thick bundle of flowers to the man beside him. He’s dressed nice, but Keith isn’t sure if he’s an employee of the wedding venue or a guest. Either way, he wasn’t meant to help Lance, but had offered anyway. 

“It’s no problem, really. You looked like you could use some help, and I’m weak for a pretty face.” When he smiles, it’s charming. He’s classically handsome, Keith supposes, if not a little dull. From first glance, there’s nothing interesting about him— clean cut and  _ boring _ . But Lance had felt a spark, and it had pulled Keith here. 

Where he had missed.  _ Again _ .

Lance laughs, light and playful, but Keith has been around him long enough to hear the strain in it. The fraying around the edges. The weariness. 

He can already feel the spark fading— lost and gone because Keith had failed _yet_ _again_ to ignite it. 

“This is the bouquet for the bride and groom’s table. If you could…?” It’s pointed. A diversion. A redirection.

“Right, yeah.” The guy turns and hurries away, and as he goes, Lance turns back to his flowers with a soft sigh. 

For a moment— just a brief moment— he looks… sad. Face falling. Reaching out to gently run his fingers across soft flower petals. And then just as quickly as he had crumbled, he’s smiling again. Light and cheerful. Quickly passing out his flowers and directing his helpers, sprucing up the entire venue with a critical eye. 

Keith should go. 

He had tried— had failed— and now his work here was unfortunately done. He can feel the buzzing energy of his knife reforming in its sheath— a sore reminder, really— and this is the time when he should leave to wallow in his shame. Keith had never been one to stick around even after a successful hit, as some cupids do. He never really cared to. 

But here…

He lingers. 

He watches Lance flit around the venue, graceful and commanding, light hearted and clever. His flower arrangements are an art. His touch is gentle. There’s a glimmer of joy in his eyes that Keith rarely gets to see. It’s… nice. 

He leans against a pillar, invisible to everyone running about with last minute preparations, and watches Lance work. 

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels it fall— caught up in an uncomfortable itch in his wings. He shifts his shoulders, ruffling his wings in an attempt to stifle the sensation. But when he does, movement catches his eye.

When he looks, he sees a single black feather settling innocently on the ground. 

And his stomach drops.

* * *

The tug is something every cupid can recognize. 

It’s a pull at something deep within their core. Something they’re powerless to resist. It grips their heart and yanks them toward it, and there’s little they can do to resist it. A puppet tied up and bound with the strings of fate. Their weapons and their aim an instrument of destiny. 

They can fly— their wings aren’t entirely for show— but when they feel a  _ tug _ , there’s far more at play. 

Sparks need quick attention, lest they fade. The assigned cupid needs to get there quickly. So when they feel a tug, they…  _ step _ .

Keith can’t explain it fully. Isn’t really sure he was ever actually  _ taught _ about the step. It was just something that became instinctual upon his rebirth as a cupid. It became an innate part of him. A bodily reflex. The tug pulls at him— at something deep inside of him— and his body reacts with the step. 

It’s not a conscious decision, and it can be incredibly frustrating when he’s suddenly dragged away from conversations— activities— whatever the hell he’s doing. 

Hell, once he was forced to step while he was taking a shower. 

Thank  _ fuck _ for invisibility. 

The tug always feels the same. And there’s really no way of telling who he’ll find at the end of it. At least… that’s how he’s told it’s supposed to be. But he’s heard from other cupids that when they revisit a human a lot— because after all, love can be fickle— they start to recognize specific tugs. 

He’s never met anyone who _missed_ _their target_ so often that feeling their tug became second nature, but that’s beside the point. No one besides Shiro knows that Keith’s flawless track record isn’t so flawless. 

Anyway, the point is, Keith has come to recognize Lance’s tug. 

It feels…  _ different _ . 

Maybe it’s instinctual, some kind of cupid intuition that’s just hardwired into him. Or maybe it’s that soft, wistfulness about Lance’s tugs. How his sparks feel like a fresh breeze rolling off the ocean, warm to the touch like soft sand. How when Keith feels the tug and takes the step, he smells fresh rain. How the step through the ether brings the same feeling as the shift of ozone before a storm. 

So when he feels the tug this time— while he’s in the middle of fixing up an old, vintage motorcycle, which has become one of his favorite earthly hobbies— he knows immediately that it’s Lance. 

He drops his tools and stands, wiping off his hands on a rag before tossing it aside, pulling out his gloves and tugging them on as he turns— taking the step  _ between— _ feeling that strange  _ shift _ as he closes the distance between himself and his target in seconds. A strange sort of teleportation that he can’t control— that’s a base reflex after a tug.

And he finds himself in a grocery store. 

Frowning, he looks around, scanning the crowd. Usually, it’s part of the job to locate a target, trying to pinpoint that glowing spark that had called to them. But Keith already knows exactly who he’s looking for. 

He starts off, weaving through people as he glancing down each aisle, looking for that familiar head of chestnut brown hair and dazzling blue eyes—

He finds Lance in the bread aisle, talking with a woman. Both of them are dressed in casual clothes— sweatpants and hoodies, her hair pulled into a messy bun and his pinned back with clips that Keith knows means he had been with his niece and nephew recently. They’re talking casually, relaxed and open, smiling and warm. 

He can feel that spark inside Lance, soft and bright but already fading. 

He doesn’t have much time— but he hesitates. Fingertips at his dagger, curled but not quite gripping. He watches her reach out, casually touch Lance’s arm as she laughs and Lance smiles— and his stomach twists. 

He feels… nauseous. Something unpleasant bubbling in his gut. His heart  _ squeezes _ . A strange tension in his core that he’s never known. 

He doesn’t… like this woman. Which makes no  _ sense _ when he doesn’t even know her. But he just… he  _ knows _ she wouldn’t be a good match for Lance. And Keith has learned to trust his gut, but— but this is his job. 

He grabs his dagger, unsheathing it and throwing it before he can somehow talk himself out of throwing it at all—

Predictably, his aim is off. As it always is. It slams into a bundle of bread between them, and while his weapons aren’t supposed to be corporeal enough to affect the physical world, the momentum of it knocks a whole row of bread to the ground— causing them both to jump in surprise—

And Keith just stares, confused and bewildered and surprised— trying to wrestle with the sense of relief and guilt he feels with equal measure as Lance’s spark fades. 

The woman is already bent down, picking up the bread to return it to the shelf, babbling about how she must have knocked it over. But Lance is looking around, brows adorably furrowed and lips pursed into a cute little frown.

His gaze passes right over Keith— and then snaps back.

Keith stares, wide eyed and breath held, as their eyes meet for the first time— though it has to be impossible— he should be invisible and Lance shouldn’t be able to see him unless he wills it— and he didn’t will it... right?

For a second— just the briefest, most agonizingly quick second— Keith swears he sees Lance’s expression soften. 

But then he’s turning away, dropping to his knees to help the woman clean up Keith’s mess. 

Keith just watches, heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to tear itself right out of his chest. 

What was that? 

What, the  _ hell _ , was that?

_ What was that? _

* * *

That night, his wings are unbearably itchy. The skin burns something fierce, and he’s restless with it. When he finally gives in and grooms them, carefully washing his wings and combing through the feathers, several of them come loose. Plucked out despite the gentleness of his fingers. 

And as he holds one up to the light, he can see that at the base of his beautiful midnight black feathers… is a touch of gray.

* * *

Whenever Keith feels a tug that isn’t Lance, he’s caught up in a whirlwind of relief and disappointment. It’s worrisome how attached he’s become to a target, and he hadn’t even realized it until the waves of disappointment swept through him, too obvious to be ignored. 

Still, he feels relief. Because as long as the target isn’t Lance, he’s a perfect cupid. He can locate his mark without trying. His aim is always true. Instinct. Intuition. Keith  _ thrives _ on them. And it wasn’t until Lance that it started messing with his gut. 

Thankfully, though, his other marks don’t suffer for his blunders with Lance. 

Even here. In a crowded bar. Keith pinpoints his mark as soon as he steps. As soon as the room shifts and solidifies around him, he has his eyes locked on her. He can see the faint glow of a spark in her chest as she talks with another woman beside her. 

His knife is in his hand in second, arm pulled back and a step forward— then it flies across the room. Through small windows between bodies. His aim true. His throw certain. It sinks into her chest, and he watches with a small, satisfied smirk as the air rushes from her lungs. As her eyes widen, locked and dazed as she stares at the woman in front of her. 

The spark in her chest, touched by his dagger,  _ bursts _ . Igniting into a wave of heat that lights up her whole aura.

Bullseye. 

Keith straightens, absently adjusting his gloves as he smiles. His wings puffed up with pride. He doesn’t usually linger, but he does like seeing the looks on their faces when he hits his mark. A job well done. 

His dagger will dissolve with time, returning to its sheath. But he doesn’t need to stick around and wait for it.

He turns, looking for the door to the bar. While stepping allows him to travel great distances to reach his target in time, it’s not something he can just do. Which, unfortunately, means having to leave and go back about his business by foot— or wing. 

But as he turns, his gaze sweeps across the bar— and his eyes snap back before he even really processes what caught his attention to begin with. 

But then he sees it— sees  _ him _ . 

Lance. 

With messy brown hair and smooth tan skin. Dressed nicely, but casually. Clearly putting effort into his appearance, but still casual enough to be approachable. 

But no one is approaching him.

He sits alone at the bar. Slumped to the side, leaning against an elbow, chin resting against his fist. In his other hand, he holds a glass, idly swirling around the liquid as he simply stares. 

He looks so… lost. Alone. Solemn. Forlorn. 

Keith’s heart aches. 

He should go. His business here is done. He’s hit his mark, and he should return home. Should go for a walk. Should do literally anything besides stick around. 

But… his business  _ is _ done. And when they’re not chasing a spark, they’re allowed to indulge in earthly pleasures as they see fit. After all, the whole point of their existence is to try to learn how to live again. 

Instinct. Intuition. Keith has always lived by his gut feelings, and right now… his gut is steering him toward the hallway where the bathrooms lie. And he goes willingly, feet moving before he really notices. Yet despite his mind not being fully caught up, it’s definitely made up. 

He slips around a corner, and when he’s out of sight, he closes his eyes— gathers that strange bundle of energy inside him— peels back that layer of protective glamour that hides his form. 

He shivers as the air hits him. Skin somehow more sensitive when his invisibility is dropped. When he fully merges himself with this plane of existence. As corporeal and visible as the things around him. His wings pull into his back, hidden and secured. They’re restless and uncomfortable. He can feel them shift beneath his skin, feathers ruffled and pinched. Reverted to nothing more than a tattoo of wings cascading down his back.

He can already feel the ache, and knows that if he holds this form for two long, his wings can be bent, and damaged, and bruised. 

He still remembers when Shiro held his human form for too long while courting Adam. He remembers helping him massage his wings afterwards, listening to him go on and on about the human he was infatuated with. Shiro had fallen not long after that, and at the time, Keith couldn’t understand why Shiro would let himself fall— let himself go back to a mediocre human life— when as cupids, they’re free. 

But now… he thinks he might be starting to understand. If only a little.

When he steps back into the main room of the bar, everything is louder. More vibrant. More overwhelming. His heart is in his throat as he approaches the bar. His palms feel clammy beneath his gloves. His stomach is twisted in knots, tight and churning. Every movement feels too stiff. His breath coming short and shallow. 

He slides onto the stool next to Lance, staring straight forward for a moment— trying to breathe— trying to gather his courage—  _ Fuck _ , it shouldn’t be this hard. He’s lived a life before. He died. He’s spent the past few decades as an otherworldly being. He’s had countless experiences. Seen countless things.

So why is talking to a guy at a bar so hard?

“Hey, man.” 

That voice, so soft and smooth, sends shivers down Keith’s spine, making his wings shift and bristle beneath his skin. His head snaps to the side, eyes open wide as they meet that beautiful blue gaze. 

And Keith—

He just—

He gapes. 

Stares. Mouth hanging open. Lips working like he’s trying—  _ willing _ himself to speak— but nothing comes out—

And strangely, miraculously, Lance smiles. Small and lopsided. Head tilting to the side. Mischief sparkling in those pretty eyes. “Rough day?”

Keith snaps his head shut, brows furrowing in frustration as he gives a sharp nod. “Uh, yeah…”

Lance exhales sharply— an almost snort and an almost laugh. He lifts his glass to his lips. “Yeah, I feel you.”

Keith watches the way his throat bobs. His mouth feels so dry. “What… what happened?” He’s proud when his voice comes out steady, if not a little unsure. 

“Just, you know… got stood up. The usual. Got stood up.” He drops his hand back to the bar top, tilting the glass in circles. That gleam in his eyes dims, smile fading to a small frown. One shoulder lifts and falls. Then he tilts his head to look at Keith— to give him an obvious once over— and when their eyes meet, that mischievous sparkle is back. His lips twitch at the edges, fighting off a smile. “Unless you’re a girl named Ariel who likes dogs, Starbucks, and works as a fifth grade teacher.”

And strangely— miraculously— Keith feels his own lips curl at the edges. Feels his eyes crinkle as he fights— and loses to— his own smile. “I could be.”

Lance’s smile is beautiful. Radiant.  _ Blinding _ . It’s all Keith can see. Makes him feel dizzy and giddy. Heart skipping in his chest. Stomach flipping. It’s a strange sensation. So unfamiliar. So new. 

It’s overwhelming.

So much so, that Keith misses the tug. 

“In that case,” Lance says, already falling down a bartender. “Let me buy you a drink?”

Despite how wound up he feels, Keith finds himself relaxing. Finds himself saying, soft and easy, “I’d like that.”

* * *

“Keith…” It’s soft. Careful. Not quite stern, but certainly steady. Gentle in a way one might approach someone on the edge of a cliff. Which is exactly how Keith feels right now. 

“Don’t say it,” he grits out, leaning over the counter in Shiro’s bathroom. Hands planted on the smooth surface. Jaw clenched tight and teeth grinding hard enough to make a vein in his temple pop. He stares at himself in the mirror, wings spread wide. 

His feathers have always been black as night, silky smooth and shining purple wherever the light hit. They’ve always been beautiful. 

And now they’re graying at the roots, spreading at least halfway up the stems. Dull and lifeless. Not so much a new color as it is the absence of one. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, patient as always. “You know what this is. You saw me go through this when I met Adam.”

“No.” His hands curl into fists. “There has to be another explanation. Maybe I damaged them somehow—“

“We only lose our color when we’re falling. Why do you think humans only ever see us with white wings?”

“I don’t  _ want _ to fall,” he hisses, spinning around to glare at Shiro, tucking his wings protectively against his back. 

Shiro leans against the doorframe, smiling at him ruefully. “Love never asks you what you  _ want _ . It happens naturally.” 

Keith leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he turns his gaze away. “I don’t want this…”

“Cupids are never meant to be cupids forever. We’re  _ meant _ to fall. We’re meant to find love ourselves. It’s our second chance at life.”

“But I  _ like _ being a cupid. I like being able to fly, and be invisible, and just… do everything, see the world…” He huffs, blowing back a lock of hair from his forehead before mumbling, “Being human is… a lot. I did it once, and I’m…”

“Scared to do it again?”

“Yeah.”

Shiro sighs, stepping into the bathroom to lean against the counter next to him. He wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulder and pulls him in for a side hug. Keith falls into him willingly. He’s missed Shiro. He’s welcome to visit any time, and he does so often, but Shiro has a  _ life _ now. He has human responsibilities and a fiancé. Things aren’t the same as they used to be, when they were both cupids and carefree. 

“I was scared, too, you know.” 

“I know,” Keith mumbles. “I remember.”

“Do you also remember what I said?” Keith huffs, and Shiro continues, “I said that it didn’t matter because Adam was worth it.”

“Was he?” Keith asks, voice quiet and strained. His chest feels tight. “Was he worth it in the end?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says softly. Wistful and fond. “He was.” 

Keith squeezes his eyes shut. “What if I fall, and he rejects me? I’ll be alone again, and stuck being human.”

“You won’t be alone. You’ll have me this time around.” His arm around Keith’s shoulders tightens, playfully jostling him. “How many times have you missed Lance?”

Keith groans, low and frustrated. “Too many.”

“ _ Exactly _ . You’re one of the best cupids I’ve ever known, and I was around a lot longer than you were. You’re a natural, and you’ve never missed someone before. Have you ever stopped to wonder why you keep missing Lance?”

“No,” he says, petulant and gruff. Of course, he has. And he doesn’t like the answer he always comes to, and thus tends to avoid wondering. He prefers to simply vow to do better and leave it at that. 

“I think you didn’t  _ want _ to hit Lance—“

“Of course I wanted to hit him! It’s my job! And he deserves to find love—“

“And you want to be the one to give it to him—“

“ _ No _ .”

“You may not have thought about it, but subconsciously, the desire had to be there. A cupid’s weapon is a manifestation of themself. We throw with our hearts, and your heart didn’t want to hit Lance.”

Keith groans. Long, loud, and wordless. It pulls a chuckle out of Shiro. 

He pats Keith’s shoulder and then pulls away, turning to face him as he backs out of the bathroom. “Cupids don’t fall for fading infatuation. Only a strong love can take our wings. It’s our reward.”

“Losing our wings is a shitty reward,” Keith mutters, pushing off the counter. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Shiro chuckles. “Now come on. Adam’s trying out a new recipe tonight. You’re staying for dinner, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve got nothing better to—“ He stops. Freezes mid-step and mid-sentence. 

He feels a tug in his chest. A pull at his core. One that locks him up like a puppet, powerless to fight the yanking strings. Forced to dance to the cupid’s song. 

But it’s not just a tug. It’s  _ the _ tug.  _ Lance’s _ tug. A tug that’s cooling. Refreshing. Sending goosebumps prickling across his skin and adrenaline through his veins. His heart leaps— actually skips and stutters in his chest. And the breath catches in his throat.

Shiro turns, eyebrows lifting as he takes in Keith where his body is locked up. 

“A tug?” He asks. 

Keith nods, quick and sharp. “Yeah…” There’s a lot in that one word. A lot that his tone says. A lot that he feels but fears to put voice to, yet it takes control anyway. Sneaks inside that one word and puts a weight to it that he feels and hears. 

And Shiro hears it, too. He smirks. “Lance?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, go on then.”

Keith does. Without a word, he starts to turn, moving on instinct as he takes a step  _ between _ . And as that strange shift comes over him— as he passes between locations in the blink of an eye, the smell of rain in his nose and air before a storm— he hears Shiro call after him. 

“Don’t be afraid to fall, Keith. Lance will catch you.”

* * *

Lance’s flower shop is a quaint little place. Just off the main thoroughfare of downtown. Nestled in the backstreets. Chipped paint on the sign and and homey storefront. From what Keith has gathered over his time being tugged to Lance, this flower shop is a family business. He’s not sure who officially owns it, but Lance works here often. Throws his heart and soul into it with a passion that makes Keith warm all over. 

Keith stands outside the shop, feet planted on the cracked sidewalk, graying feathers rustling in the wind. He stares through the front window, past all the plants that fill the inside like a jungle. 

Lance is behind the counter, wrapping up a bundle of flowers to a woman. He tells a joke— Keith distantly realizes he’s so far gone that he can recognize Lance’s joke-telling expression— and she laughs. 

He can see the faint spark glowing in his chest. Like a fading ember, barely clinging to life. 

He doesn’t have much time, and the weight of his knife is heavy in his hand. Handle pressed against his palm. Fingers curled tightly around it. His entire body is wound up, pulled taut. He feels like he’s walking a precarious line, and he’s not entirely sure if he’ll catch himself or fall.

Shiro is convinced that he’s falling, but Keith… isn’t sure that’s for the best. Lance is worthy of so much more than Keith thinks he can give. After all, he never felt love in his first life, how can he possibly love Lance the way he needs? The way he  _ deserves _ .

As much as Keith wants him— because despite it all, despite how scared he is to fall, he  _ does _ want Lance, he wants him  _ so much _ — Lance doesn’t deserve someone who doesn’t know how to love. Someone who’s  _ scared _ to love.

He… he needs to let Lance go. Needs to let him fall in love. Even if it’s not with Keith. 

He takes a step back, shifting his stance as he pulls back his arm. Knife at the ready, he only hesitates for a moment. Just a second. Just a single fraction of time where he realizes that despite how hard it is falling for Lance McClain, letting him go is so much harder. 

But then he grits his teeth and takes a step forward, letting his arm swing— letting the knife go—

He knows as soon as it leaves his hand that his aim is true, and it makes his stomach twist. 

His knife spins blade over hilt, passing easily through the window of the flower shop— phasing through the glass in search of an organic target— flying past flowers and plants—

The woman takes her bouquet with a thanks, and starts to turn. Lance bids her goodbye. Wishes her a good day.

The knife passes right over her shoulder— the blade sinking deep into Lance’s chest. 

He staggers back, bracing himself on the counter as the air rushes from his lungs. Eyes wide, confused, he stares down at the counter. Then he lifts his head, eyes flickering to the woman’s retreating back— and then to the window. 

His eyes lock with Keith’s, wide and surprised, pretty lips parted. In that moment, there’s no doubt in Keith’s mind that Lance can see him. 

The door to the shop opens and closes. The woman leaves without a glance in his direction. And yet Lance still stares.

His heart jumps and races. 

His breath hitches at the back of his throat. 

And then pain rips through Keith’s back. White hot and sharp. He gasps, falling forward to catch himself on the window as agony ripples down his spine, consuming and overwhelming. His flesh feels like it’s tearing. His bones feel like they’re breaking.

It’s too much— it’s too sharp— A strangled cry escapes his throat as his legs give out. He slides down the window, landing on the sidewalk on his knees, hands curled into fists on the glass— in the reflection, he can see his feathers blowing away in the wind, ripped from his wings like nothing more than flower petals.

He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping to the brick windowsill, breathing harshly through his nose as he rides out the pain. 

It’s gone as quickly as it came. Ripping through him like a tornado and leaving him shaking and cold on the cracked concrete. Everything feels— it feels like  _ too much _ . His body feels so heavy. His skin feels so sensitive— shivering from the wind, hyper aware of the shift and weight of his clothes. His shoulder blades ache, a deep pulsing burn. 

He feels… too light, unbalanced, and yet his body also feels leaden, far too heavy and weighed down. Tethered to the earth in a way he hasn’t known for decades. 

He knows without looking that his wings are gone.

“Uh, hey?” A voice, so soft and concerned.  _ Lance’s _ voice. Keith stiffens, heart racing as a hand lands on his shoulder, light and uncertain. “Hey, dude, you okay?” 

He turns his head slowly, peaking at Lance through his hair and his lashes, brows pinched and teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. Lance is so close. Kneeled down next to him.  _ Touching _ him. Gazing at him with worry and awe in equal measure. The door to the shop hasn’t even swung closed yet. 

Keith tries to speak, but his voice is hard to find. His throat feels raw. His mouth dry. He swallows hard. Offers the barest shake of his head. 

And Lance… smiles. Soft. Small. Barely there. His face lit up in a warm glow from the setting sun. His hand squeezes lightly. “It’s… Keith, right?” When Keith blinks owlishly, surprise coloring his features, Lance’s smile twitches a hair wider, head tilting to the side. “From the bar? Or… maybe I should call you Ariel.”

At that, Keith laughs. A surprised puff of air that shutters out of him, broken and rough, but genuine all the same. He shakes his head, voice full of gravel as he says, “Keith is fine.”

“Well, Keith, I— uh— I don’t really know what just happened—“

Keith squeezes his eyes shut. “What did you see?”

“Um… this is gonna sound crazy, but… wings? At least, for a moment. The feathers kind of blew away?” He laughs, a nervous edge to it. “That sounds insane, but I  _ swear— _ “

“It’s not crazy,” Keith says with a sigh. “It’s… complicated… I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

“Well…” Next to him, he hears Lance shifting. Feels his hand leave Keith’s shoulder. When he opens his eyes, Lance is standing, holding out his hand like an offer— like a plea— like a promise. His smile is beautiful— impish, mischievous, playful, soft, fond, nervous, excited. It sends Keith reeling. Leaves him dizzy as his heart beats far too fast. “Why don’t you come inside and try me?”

Keith has always been a creature of instinct and intuition.

It carried him through his life and his after life. 

So when his gut tells him to take Lance’s hand, he doesn’t hesitate. 

He holds on tight as Lance pulls him to his feet. Without his wings, his balance is off, and he stumbles. But Lance is there to catch him, wrapping his arms around him as Keith falls against his chest. 

And when he looks up to find Lance smiling— he finds he doesn’t need wings to feel like he’s flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. You've Got Me Like A Hidden Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - college au - secret relationship - fluff - 5,198 words
> 
> _After dancing around each other for years, hopelessly pining and not being subtle about it, Keith and Lance are finally dating. Everything is great, but they’ve decided to keep it secret for now. They want to enjoy their happiness for a bit before the I-told-you-so’s start rolling in. However, keeping their relationship a secret from their friends may be harder than anticipated._

“Rainbow Road? Seriously?” Keith asks, one eyebrow lifting in surprise as he turns to glance at Lance, lips pursed in that little confused pout he does. Jesus, Lance loves that pout. 

He grins. “Yup, I’m gonna kick your gay ass on the gayest map,” he announces proudly. He’s sitting on the couch, legs pulled up and crossed loosely, Keith nestled snugly in the space between his thighs. He’s leaning back against Lance’s chest, feet propped up on the coffee table, controller resting loosely in his lap. Lance’s arms hang around his waist, his own controller propped up on Keith’s hip, his chin hooked over his shoulder. “So buckle the fuck up, buttercup. You’re in for a wild ride.”

Keith looks back to the screen, finger idly tapping the edge of his controller. The corner of his lips are curled up into a small smirk. “The last time you played this map, you fell off twelve times. Pidge was counting.”

“Shut up!” Lance says, aiming a playful swat at Keith’s chest, making his body shake with quiet laughter. “Pidge is a fucking  _ demon _ at Mario Kart, and you were cheating.”

“I would never,” Keith says, voice blank and innocent, but far too dry to be honest. That, plus the little smirk that he can’t quite hide. 

“You were groping my thighs under the blanket so Pidge would win!” 

Keith gives him a small shrug, smirk widening. “Not my fault you’re weak.”

“Oh, oh, that’s it,” Lance says, setting his controller aside to grab Keith’s sides. 

He lets out a yelp, pulling his legs to his chest and squirming, hands flying to lance’s to peel them off his sides. His gasps and indignant noises are cut with giggles that he can’t quite control, and it’s too fucking cute. Lance finds himself laughing, sound turning into more of a wheeze as one of Keith’s elbows hits his chest. 

When they finally settle, Keith is twisted in his lap, half turned to face him, and their faces are close. Keith’s hands are on his, gripping tight to keep his attacks at bay, and he’s panting slightly with the effort of calming down. Lance just grins, chin tilted upward, head cocked to the side in just the right position. It’s an open invitation, and from the way Keith’s eyes flicker down to his lips for just a second, he knows that Keith knows it, too. 

“You are  _ so _ going down,” Lance mutters, voice low and challenging. 

Keith’s eyes lift back to his, and he’ll never get tired of drowning in that midnight gaze. 

His eyes are really what had lured him in. Hook, line, and sinker. Eyes, half hidden in the shadows of his hair, hardened behind glares and scowls, but once softened, so expressive. With that wall removed, Keith’s eyes told him everything. Said all the things that he didn’t know how to say himself. A night sky filled with stars that guided Lance to the heart of him, the heart of Keith, exposing everything Keith was afraid to say aloud but desperately wished to. 

Lance fell in love with those eyes first, and the rest was soon to follow. Hell, he’s  _ still _ falling. An endless free fall, constantly introduced to new things that take the breath from his lungs and the ground from beneath his feet. 

Keith’s lips curl into a smirk, slow and deadly, eyes smoldering and lidded, gaze burning. How had Lance ever thought he hated that smirk? It used to make his blood boil, and it still did, but for completely different reasons. 

Keith tilts his chin. A small movement that lines them up perfectly. But he keeps the short distance between them, his breath playfully fanning out across Lance’s lips. “Yeah, if you’re lucky.”

Lance feels his own smirk tugging at his lips. “Does that mean if I win, you  _ are _ going down?”

“Guess you gotta win to find out.”

Lance’s hand rests at Keith’s hip, slides up slowly beneath his shirt, fingers spreading out to feel as much of his soft, warm skin as he can. His hand comes to rest on Keith’s waist, feeling the curve of his side and reveling in the way his muscles twitch and coil beneath his touch. 

He can hear the way Keith’s breath hitches. Sees his eyes dart down to his lips once again. He lays a hand on Lance’s chest, fingers splayed before curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, leaning in—

The sound of a key rattling in the lock has them both pulling apart, freezing in place with wide, frightful eyes. Keith’s hand leaves his shirt, but that’s about all they have time to do before the door is being thrown open, bouncing loudly off the stopper. 

“Whaddup, bitches, I’m—“ Pidge freezes roughly two steps into the apartment, bags of Chinese take out hanging from her arms as she stares at them blankly. He and Keith stare back, barely daring to blink. Pidge is the first to break the silence. “Uh... Keith?” 

He risks a glance at Keith. His face is perfectly blank, expression almost bored. “Yeah?” He says, and Lance is impressed when his voice betrays nothing. Hell, the only indication that he’s actually rattled is the hand curled into a tight fist, pressed against Lance’s thigh. 

“Why are you in Lance’s lap?” Pidge asks, voice just as blank, though curiosity and suspicion color the edges of her words. 

Lance blinks, heart hammering in his chest. His hand is still under Keith’s shirt, fingers tightened around his side, nails biting into his back. He can feel his breath coming quicker in short, shallow gasps, though he tries to keep it minimal, tries to keep the attention off of him, doesn’t want to distract from the Pidge versus Keith stare down. Because he  _ knows _ he’s not keeping it together as well as Keith is. 

They’ve been dating for a while now, but they haven’t exactly  _ told _ their friends that they’re together. It’s not that they’re  _ ashamed _ of it, per se. It’s just... they’ve gotten a lot of shit about it throughout the years, and now that they’ve actually gotten together, they both decided they wanted to enjoy it a bit before all the  _ I told you so _ ’s start to kick in. A little time to themselves. A little secret between them. Just some privacy to figure out how they work with this new dynamic before their friends inevitably come butting in. 

And he’s not exactly sure  _ when _ or  _ how _ they’re going to tell them, but this isn’t exactly what he had in mind. 

“He was sitting in my spot,” Keith says, smooth as silk, casual and calm, a fucking  _ hero _ .

Lance jumps on the excuse without a second thought. “I was here first!”

Keith shrugs, ignoring his protest and the indignant pout he puts on for show as he lifts up the controller for Pidge to see. “Wanna count how many times Lance falls off Rainbow Road?”

Pidge snorts, body relaxing and eyes rolling. “You know it.”

“Hey!” 

Pidge kicks off her shoes, nudges the door shut, and trudges into the living room. She plops down on the couch next to them and drops the food on the coffee table, already rummaging through it. Keith slides wordlessly off his lap, falling to his other side and leaning his back against the arm of the couch, controller resting lazily in his lap. 

His legs, however, remain sprawled out over Lance’s lap as they play. 

Lance doesn’t make a big deal about it, and Pidge doesn’t question it. 

* * *

“Hunk is gonna kill you if he sees you doing that,” Keith says from his perch on the counter. His legs swing idly, heels hitting lightly against the cabinets below him. Phone in hand and eyes on the screen, he doesn’t look up. 

“He asked me to watch the food. There’s no way he thinks that I  _ won’t _ sneak a taste,” Lance says, carefully setting the lid back on the pot and setting the spoon aside. 

“He specifically asked us  _ not _ to do that because he wants everyone to try it together. You know how Hunk gets with his new recipes.”

Lance leans his hip against the counter next to the stove, crossing his arms over his chest. “You gonna tell on me?” He asks, voice low and playful. 

That, finally, catches Keith’s attention. He looks up, gazing at Lance through his lashes and beneath his bangs. Lance watches as he blinks, taking in the moment, eyes flickering up and down Lance’s body. He has to repress a shiver when Keith meets his gaze again, eyes lidded and sparkling with amusement. “Mmmm, maybe...” He hums, and Lance can see the small smirk playing at the edges of his lips. 

Lance’s smirk twitches, threatening a grin. “What do I have to do to buy your silence?”

Keith leans back, setting his phone aside as he plants his hands on the counter beside him. He tilts his head, lifting his chin, eyes once again roaming down his form. Slower this time, more purposeful. When their eyes meet again, Keith’s lips stretch into a lazy smile, slow and predatory. His legs spread just a little further apart. An open invitation. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

He can’t really smother his smile as he slips across the kitchen, fitting himself between Keith’s legs, hands running up from his knees to settle firmly on his thighs, giving them an appreciative squeeze. Keith’s breath hitches. Just the smallest of sounds that can barely be heard in the quiet of the kitchen. 

Keith is watching him, and Lance lets him watch as his slowly rakes his gaze up Keith’s body, hands still playing at his thighs. Lance leans in, lifting his chin and tilting his head to the side. He smiles when he sees Keith’s eyes flicker down to his lips. 

“When did Hunk leave?” He asks, voice low and rough with a whisper. 

Keith’s eyes flicker to the clock above the stove. “Ten minutes ago.”

Lance’s hands run along Keith’s thighs, pausing for a moment to hold his hips, thumbs moving beneath the hem of his shirt to circle his hip bones. He can feel Keith shiver. “And how long do you think it’ll take him to pick up Shay from the bus stop?”

His hands slide around his hips to get a firm hold on his ass, fingers digging in as he roughly pulls Keith the few short inches to the edge of the counter, pressing their hips together. Keith gasps, body automatically arching against him, thighs pressing against Lance’s sides, hands running up his arms to drape across his shoulder, fingers playing with his hair. 

He leans in, tilting his head so their noses brush, breath fanning across Lance’s face and lips brushing as he speaks. “Twenty minutes?”

“Perfect,” he breathes, and closes the distance between them. 

Sometimes kissing Keith is like a wildfire. It’s quick and rushed, primal and desperate. A clash of teeth, sloppy and messy. It’s hard and passionate and fueled by a fire that runs through their veins. 

Sometimes kissing Keith is like the warmth of a campfire. Warm and soothing, easy to lose himself in. Short and sweet, soft and gentle. Smiles hiding in the shadows and light touches that leave goosebumps. 

This time is like both and neither. It’s smoldering. Slow and tempting, a heat flaring beneath their skin, threatening to spark without catching flame. Each touch is loaded but light, teasing and promising. Fueling what burns between them, building it slowly. 

Fingers curl into his hair and around the back of his neck, nails digging into his shoulders. Thighs press into him, trapping him. Hips roll together, creating a friction that’s sweet and torturous, not enough and yet too much all at once. When Keith sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, Lance groans low in his throat. And when he mouths his way along Keith’s jaw to suck at that special spot beneath his ear, Keith gasps and arches into him, whole body tight as a spring before melting against him. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this. Enough of Keith. Every touch, every taste, every sound. It’s all so addictive. Leaves him satisfied but incredibly empty, forever wanting more and more and—

The door to the apartment swings open before slamming shut, rattling the walls. “Hey, guys! Shay brought some wine to go with dinner! And Shiro said he’s gonna be a little late, but— uhh...”

He trails off as he steps into the kitchen. Lance doesn’t turn around, but he knows he’s there. Can feel it in the way Keith’s body tenses against him. His hands are back on the counter beside him, back rigid as he leans away from Lance as far as he can, legs spread to avoid touching him. 

Lance just leans forward, ignoring the heat on his face as he aimlessly digs around in the cupboard behind Keith. 

“What, uh— whatcha doing, buddy?” Hunk asks, voice carefully neutral but Lance can hear the uncertainty and the confusion and the goddamn insinuation there, which really doesn’t help the flush he’s fighting desperately to keep down. 

“I, uh— needed something out of his cabinet, but Keith wouldn’t move,” he says, pleased when his voice doesn’t shake. He actually sounds pretty casual. Score one for Lancey Lance. He grabs one of the spices and steps back, brandishing it victoriously as he, woefully, puts distance between him and Keith. “ _ A-ha! _ ”

“Cinnamon?” Hunk asks, eyebrow raised. 

Lance glances at him, eyes flickering between him and Shay, positioned slightly behind him, watching them curiously from the doorway to the kitchen. “Hi, Shay.”

She lifts a hand in greeting, a small smile playing across her lips. “Hello, Lance. Keith.”

Keith nods toward her, already burying his face in his phone again. “Hey.”

“So... cinnamon?” Hunk pushes, and  _ dammit _ , Lance was hoping he’d let it go. 

“Uh, yeah! Keith here is gonna do the cinnamon challenge.”

Keith looks up sharply, eyebrows raised. “I’m going to do the  _ what? _ ”

“He is?” Hunk questions.

Lance’s lips curl into a mischievous smile, eyes sparkling as he looks at Keith. And just like that, his body relaxes, slumping into a casual stance as he gestures to Keith. “Hotshot over here said he could do it. I said he couldn’t. So here we are, and he’s got to prove himself.”

Keith’s eyes narrow, brows furrowing. “I’m not doing that.”

“What’s the matter, Keith?” Lance says, crossing his arms as he smirks. “Scared?”

There it is. That twitch in his brow. The downturn of his lips. Lance knows he has him now. Took the bait, easy. “I’m not scared,” he states flatly. 

Lance just grins, stepping forward to pluck his phone out of his hand and replace it with the jar of cinnamon. “Then prove it,” he says simply, playfully, waggling his eyebrows. 

Keith rolls his eyes and shoves him as he hops off the counter, and Lance laughs. It turns into a choked gasp as Keith passes Hunk, casually saying, “By the way, Lance tasted the food.”

“Laaaance!” Hunk groans. 

“Keith!”

* * *

He picks his way across the living room floor, careful and slow, eyes adjusted well enough by now to see the outlines of bodies and limbs strewn out across the floor. 

Hunk is easy to avoid, as is Shay. They’re cuddled close and off to the side. Shiro is also pretty easy to step over, not too many blankets to obscure his form. Matt, however, is sprawled out every which way. Lance nearly steps on a leg, but catches himself as soon as his foot touches it. He stumbles a little, throwing a hand out to steady himself on the back of the couch. He holds his breath as Matt makes a little humming sound, smacking his lips before rolling over. But then he’s out like a light, and Lance breathes out a small, sigh of relief. 

“Lance?” Allura’s voice is soft and slurred with sleep, partially muffled by her blanket. He freezes, eyes snapping to the couch. She hums softly, shifting as she props herself up on an elbow, rubbing an eye as she gazes at him. Even in the dark, he can see her expression is pinched. “Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, keeping his voice low and glancing around to make sure everyone else is still asleep. They are. They’re fucking passed out, a couple of them snoring to create a clustered chorus. The apartment is a mess, empty bottles and cups scattered everywhere, chip bags and fallen popcorn decorating nearly every surface. 

Leave it to Allura to be the one to wake up easily when she had been one of the first to pass out. She would be a terrifying mom one day.

“What’re you doing?” She asks, eyeing him more fully, still tired but far too aware for his liking. She tilts her head. “Are you feeling sick?”

“Oh, no, uh, nothing like that,” he says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, glancing away. She’s still drunk, and clearly exhausted. The odds of her remembering exactly what he says are slim, so he goes with the first thing he can think of. “My back just hurts on the floor, so I’m gonna go—“

“Do you want the couch?” She asks, already throwing aside her blanket and sitting up straighter. “I can move to the floor—“

“Nooo! No, no, no, Allura, it’s chill,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently maneuvering her back down. She automatically curls back under her blanket, blinking up at him blearily. “I’m just going to go crash in Keith’s bed. It’s big enough for two.”

“Oh,” she says, blank and surprised, and he tenses, waiting for more, but she’s already rolling over to her side, snuggling deeper under her blanket. “Goodnight, then.”

He smiles, relief making his body sag. “Goodnight, Allura.” He pats her gently on the head, and she hums before he makes his way across the room. 

Pidge’s door is cracked, and he peeks inside long enough to see a curled lump beneath the covers on her bed. He slips past her room and down the hall, past the bathroom until he reaches Keith’s door. He pushes it open slowly, slipping inside before silently shutting it behind him. 

Keith, he’s pleased to see, is still awake. He rolls over to face him, hair fanning out over his pillow. He silently pushes the blankets aside, opening his arms in a clear invitation. 

Lance chuckles, shuffling across the room. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper, low and rough. He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

“Was waiting for you,” Keith mumbles, and Lance can hear the pout in his voice. “Took you long enough.”

He shrugs, digging his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushing them down, stepping out of them before sliding into the bed. “Had to wait for the others to fall asleep,” he says, nestling down beneath the blankets and reaching out, nudging Keith until he rolls over. As soon as he does, Lance grabs his hips, pulling him back until they’re flush together, body curling around his, arms wrapping around his waist. 

Keith snuggles back against him, tangling their legs together. “They’re gonna wonder why you’re in my bed without pants,” he mumbles, voice muffled by his pillow and slurred with the alcohol in his system. 

Lance chuckles, running his nose along Keith’s spine, nuzzling into the back of his neck, arms tightening around him. “I’ll just say you’re a human furnace. It’s not a lie.” 

Keith hums, and Lance knows he’s already drifting away. He is, too. Feels the lure of sleep stronger now that he’s here, curled around Keith, nose buried in his hair. 

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of his neck, lips moving against him as he whispers, “Goodnight, Keith.”

Keith says nothing, but one of his hands finds Lance’s, fingers curling together as he brings them to his face, falling asleep with Lance’s knuckles pressed to his lips. 

* * *

“Did someone order coffee?” Lance announces, stepping up to the table and brandishing the cardboard tray stocked with coffee cups with a flare. 

“ _ Finally _ ,” Pidge groans, practically launching herself across the table to grab for the tallest cup. 

Lance pulls the tray out of her reach, holding it high above him. “ _ Buh, buh, buh _ ,” he says, waggling a finger in her face before putting his hand on his hip. “What’d you say?”

She scowls, pout making her bottom lip stick out as she slouches over the table. “ _ Pleaaaaase? _ ” She tries, voice drawn out and deadpan.

He just grins. “Try again.”

She huffs, straightening a little in her seat and taking a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she fixes a wide, bright gaze on him. Her hands go to her chest, torso twisting a little as a manic grin spreads across her face. “Oh,  _ Lance! _ My lord and savior! My knight in an oversized jacket! May I have my coffee? Pretty please with sugar on top?” She says, voice loud and high and somehow managing to be enthusiastic and dry all at once. He’s impressed. 

Hunk chuckles, and Keith snorts from across the table. Lance just nods once before giving her a low and sweeping bow. “My lady,” he says, setting the cup in front of her. She snatches it, face immediately dropping as she cradles it in her hands. As soon as she sips, however, her expression immediately relaxes, and she slumps into her chair with a sigh. 

He chuckles before passing a cup to Hunk. “And for you, good sir.”

Hunk takes it delicately, a smile on his face as he nods graciously. “Thank you, good sir.”

“And for you, lord grumpy pants,” he says, setting a cup in front of Keith as he passes behind him. 

Keith grunts his thanks, and Lance playfully ruffles his hair before dropping into the empty chair next to him. Despite the scowl on his face, he had leaned into Lance’s touch. And the glare he shoots him isn’t as heated as he probably thinks it is. 

Lance just rolls his eyes, smile playing across his lips as he sets his own coffee down and reaches into his backpack for his textbooks. “Calm down, and drink your fancy latte.” 

“Latte?” Pidge asks, and when he glances up at her, she’s eyeing them curiously from across the table, her own large cup cradled in her hands. 

Lance’s movements slow as he places his textbook on the table, eyebrow raising warily. “Uh, yeah?”

Pidge’s eyes narrow, suspicion written across her features as her gaze flickers between them. “Keith only drinks plain black coffee like a heathen.”

“Oh,” Lance says, expression relaxing with understanding. He gives a soft snort, rolling his eyes as he flips open his book, trying to find the chapter he should have read last week. “Yeah, he only drinks that in the morning.”

“It helps wake me up,” Keith grumbles, setting his cup aside and reaching for his laptop again. He rests an elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm as he scrolls through a powerpoint. 

“More like punishes you for waking up,” Lance scoffs, pulling out his notebook and opening it to the marked page. “Seriously, dude, love yourself a little bit.”

“That doesn’t explain the latte,” Pidge says flatly, eyeing it pointedly. 

Lance shrugs. “During the day, he likes sweeter coffee.” He points to Keith’s cup with a pen. “Specifically, during the winter and fall, white chocolate and peppermint. Like the heathen he is.”

“Chocolate and mint is a good combination,” Keith mumbles offhandedly, eyes still on his laptop. 

Lance reaches out, patting Keith’s shoulder. “You keep telling yourself that, buddy.” His fingers find Keith’s hair, weaving through the longer strands to lightly scratch his nails along the nape of his neck. He feels Keith’s contented hum more than he hears it. 

“How’d you know that?” Pidge asks, still pushing the coffee issue. “I’m his  _ roommate _ , and I didn’t know that.”

Lance shrugs, fingers still scratching into Keith’s hair, enjoying how he can  _ feel _ him relax under his touch. “Guess I’ve been the coffee knight long enough to know everyone’s orders.” He tilts his chin down, resting his free elbow on the table and leaning into it, pointing his pen at Hunk while pinning him with a pointed look. “Just like how I know Hunk is all about the pumpkin spice drinks, unless it’s after sundown, at which point he prefers teas. Chai if he’s trying to study, and something fruity if he’s looking to relax.”

Hunk blinks, face blank before a small, sheepish smile overtakes his lips. He turns to Pidge with a shrug. “He’s right.”

Lance turns his gaze and his pen to Pidge. “And  _ you _ typically like drip coffee, a medium roast, usually, unless you’re feeling stressed, then it’s a dark roast. If you’re in crunch time, you like a couple shots of espresso. Usually always with two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of whole milk. If you’ve got a fun project going on, you like cold brew.”

Pidge blinks, eyes owlish and large as they stare at him. “Wow,” is all they manage to say, and Lance grins. 

“See? I am the coffee knight. I gotta know these things.”

Pidge’s eyes flicker to Keith before settling back on his face, gaze scrutinizing and brows pinched, like she’s trying to find clues to a puzzle that Lance is hiding. And, he supposes, he is. But he’s confident that he’s covered his tracks well enough. “Fair enough,” she finally mumbles. Though she doesn’t sound entirely convinced, and she shoots Keith another calculating look, she turns back to her own laptop.

When everyone has settled into silence, back into their own work, he leans over to Keith, hooking a chin over his shoulder, fingers still playing in his hair. “How’s your project coming?” He asks, voice low to keep from disturbing Pidge and Hunk too much. 

Keith sighs. “I’ve been up since seven, and this is all I have so far,” he says, gesturing to his laptop. Lance sets his pen aside, shooing Keith’s hand away from the trackpad so he can scroll freely through it himself. 

Lance is a touchy person. He always has been. Draping himself over his friends has never been an odd thing. He does it to everyone. So the fact that he’s doing it to Keith, in and of itself, isn’t a strange occurrence. It’s honestly the perfect excuse to touch him and offer what physical comfort he can. 

What  _ is _ odd, however, is the fact that Keith slumps into him, leans against Lance’s side, eyes closing as he hums softly. His head tilts to rest on top of Lance’s. 

They’re subtle movements. Nothing big or drastic. But it’s far, far more than he usually does in the presence of others. Maybe it’s because he’s tired. Maybe it’s because Lance is relaxing him far too much with gentle nails scratching into his scalp. Maybe it’s because he’s stopped caring about their little charade so much.

Either way, it has Lance’s heart leaping into his throat before beating overtime, body alive and warm wherever they touch. 

He keeps his eyes glued to Keith’s laptop screen, face carefully blank, feeling the heat rise up his neck and ignoring the stares from across the table. 

* * *

“Seriously?” Keith says, huffing his exasperation, puff of breath visible in the frigid air. 

“Seriously,  _ what? _ ” Lance says, brows furrowed and pout on his lips as he wraps his scarf tight around his neck, tucking the ends into his jacket. 

Keith gives him a deadpan stare, lips downturned at the edges. “It’s below freezing and you forgot your gloves?”

“I was in a hurry,” he tries, tugging his beanie down over his ears. 

Keith rolls his eyes, reaching up and snatching his hands, cradling them in his own. He’s exchanged his usual fingerless gloves with  _ actual _ gloves, slim and leather and warm. He brings Lance’s hands to his lips, breathing hot air across his knuckles before rubbing them vigorously. 

He glances up at Lance through his lashes, peeking out from beneath his bangs, and Lance feels heat crawl up his spine, settling onto his cheeks. He tucks his chin into his scarf to hide his smile, but he knows Keith can still see it in the lift of his cheeks, in his eyes. Keith’s answering smile is small, and he ducks his head to hide it. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbles, still rubbing Lance’s hands. His nose and cheeks are tinged pink, and Lance isn’t sure if it’s entirely because of the chill.

And while it’s cold as hell outside, but he doesn’t really feel it at the moment. 

Lance gives him a lopsided shrug. “Guess I’ll just suffer.”

Keith rolls his eyes, already turning and walking away. He keeps one of Lance’s hands in his, stuffing it into his pocket and lacing their fingers together where no one can see. “Come on, let’s go before the dining hall closes.”

He keeps his pace brisk and quick, forcing Lance to stumble after him, smile still hidden in his scarf. He shoves his free hand into his own pocket, not minding the chill in the slightest. Not when his other hand is warm and comfortable in Keith’s. 

Pidge and Hunk still stand by the library, watching as Keith and Lance start toward the dining hall. Hunk stares after them with a small, fond smile on his lips, arms crossed and seemingly impervious to the chill. 

Pidge, on the other hand, is hunkered down in her jacket, large scarf wrapped twice around her neck, chin tucked into it. Her hat keeps most of her hair in check, covering her ears. 

Hunched over, hands shoved deep in her pockets, she narrows her eyes at their friends. “Do they  _ really _ think they’re being subtle?” She asks, voice muffled by the knitted wool.

Hunk laughs. “Knowing Lance, yeah, they do.”

“They’re idiots,” she grumbles, a shiver wracking down her spin as the wind picks up. 

Hunk moves, a subtle step to the side to block the brunt of the wind. “Yeah, but they’re our idiots. They’ll tell us eventually.”

“I wanna call them out.”

“Awww, Pidge, let them have this.”

“We should make bets on how long it takes.”

“Now you’re talking,” Hunk says with a grin. 

“I’ll make a group chat for everyone once we’re inside.”

“Hey!” Lance calls. The two of them have stopped, half turned to look back at where Pidge and Hunk haven’t moved. One of his hands still shoved in Keith’s pocket. “Hurry up, slowpokes!”

Keith says something, and Lance laughs, entire body bending with it, heads bowed together. They turn and start walking again, hips and shoulders bumping playfully. 

Pidge feels her lip curl. “Wanna go shove snow down their shirts?”

Hunk is bent over, gloved hands bunching up handfuls of snow from the sidewalk. “Already on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	6. You've Got Me Like Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - Christmas themes - pining - fluff - 6,805 words
> 
> _Christmas holds a special place in Lance’s heart. A time for family, friends, and love. So what better way to ask out (and hopefully make out with) his good friend and long time crush than with a little romantic Christmas tree shopping._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Christmas in February

**Lance  
**> Hey Keith  
> How’s my fav Billy Idol fanboy doing?

**Keith  
**> Working on a paper

**Lance  
**> Fascinating  
> Why’re you texting me then?

**Keith  
**> Waiting for Pidge to come back with my coffee

**Lance  
**> Aww and here I thought I was special

**Keith  
**> I could be ignoring you like I am with Shiro

**Lance  
**> Good point  
> But he’s probably asking you about your paper, and I’m here to talk about something infinitely more interesting 

**Keith  
**> You’ve got roughly five mins before Pidge comes back and I put my phone on silent

**Lance  
**> Luckily I work well under pressure ;)

**Keith  
**> What do you want, Lance

**Lance  
**> Glad you asked  
> What’re you doing tomorrow?

**Keith  
**> This essay

**Lance  
**> Boring, cancel it

**Keith  
**> Cancel my school work, why didn’t I think of that

**Lance  
**> Okay, rephrasing, put it off for another day  
> Or finish it today  
> Either way

**Keith  
**> Why?

**Lance  
**> Because you’re coming christmas tree hunting with me tomorrow

**Keith  
**> What about Hunk? He’s your roommate

**Lance  
**> Nah, he’s busy  
> So you in?

**Keith  
**> I guess

**Lance  
**> It’s gonna be the best damn christmas tree hunt you’ve ever been on

**Keith  
**> Well I’ve never been on one, so…

**Lance  
**> Wtf???

**Keith  
**> We’ve always just had the same one

**Lance  
**> What like a fake one?

**Keith  
**> Yeah

**Lance**   
> Oh, oh no, Keith no  
> Now you HAVE to come with me

**Keith  
**> Fine, when?

**Lance  
**> I’ll pick you up after your last class

**Keith  
**> How long will it take?

**Lance  
**> All day, clear your schedule

**Keith  
**> Why?

**Lance  
**> Cause afterwards we’re decorating it and watching movies with hot chocolate

**Keith  
**> Okay but why?

**Lance  
**> Cause it’s cozy af that’s why

**Keith**   
> Fair I guess

**Lance  
**> I’m not taking no for an answer

**Keith  
**> Looks like I don’t have a choice

**Lance  
**> Glad you understand  
> See you tomorrow  
> Go do your paper

**Keith  
**> Kill me

**Lance  
**> No can do, buddy  
> We’ve got plans now ;)

* * *

“It’s perfect!” Lance says, throwing his hands up in a gesture that encompasses the entire tree. Barely, anyway. The tree is huge, and it’s perfect. His hands fall to settle at his hips, wide grin spreading his lips as tilts his head to gaze up at it. 

“That’s never going to fit in your apartment.”

His shoulders droop immediately, face falling flat in unamusement, lips pursed into a small frown. His weight shifts to one hip, cocking it out as he mimics. “ _That's never going to fit in your apartment_ ,” he mocks, turning his head to glare at Keith, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Not with that attitude, it won’t.”

Keith just eyes him, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised and corner of his lips twitching as he fights a smile. His eyes dance with amusement, reflecting the lights hanging above them. It makes Lance’s heart do this weird little stutter before pounding beneath his ribs. Makes his stomach go all fluttery and his knees weak. 

It isn’t anything new, but it hits him with a suddenness all the same. He’s cute. Too damn cute for his own good. Or Lance’s. What an asshole. 

“Lance, how tall are your ceilings,” he asks, expression unchanging, voice flat and patient despite the lilt of amusement at the edge of his words. 

Lance blinks, frown fading as he straightens, brows pinching in thought. “Uh, I dunno. Like... eight feet? That’s the standard, right?”

“And how tall is this tree?”

Lance opens his mouth, then snaps it shut before turning away from him, eyes sweeping across the tree for the little sign attached to it. He has to take a few steps forward and around it, grabbed for the little piece of paper wrapped up in a plastic sleeve. Tree type, where it’s from, price (ouch), and height—

He frowns, bottom lip pursing into a small pout as he turns to narrow his eyes at Keith. “Why you always gotta be a party pooper?”

He just shrugs, losing the fight with his rising smile and letting his lips curl upward. It’s amused. It’s smug. It’s cocky. It crinkles his eyes at the corners and is one of Lance’s favorite Keith smiles. God, Lance really just wants to kiss it off his stupid face. His stupid, beautiful face. All pale in the dangling fluorescent lights that hang over the tree yard, cheeks and nose pink from the chill. 

“Someone’s gotta keep you from buying a tree that won’t fit through your door.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance huffs, shoving his hands back into his pockets, back hunching as he makes his way back to Keith. With his gloves on, he can’t feel the brush of leaves in his pocket, or the silk from the little, red bow. But he can feel the shape of it. The stem, the leaves, the ribbon. It doesn’t have berries, but it doesn’t need to. He could have gotten a fake one with berries for the aesthetic, but he wanted a real one. Seems more sentimental that way.

And if it works, he’ll hang the plant up to dry and save it. 

Because he’s sentimental like that. 

And if it doesn’t work? Well, he’ll find a hole and bury himself in it with instructions to carve a mistletoe into his gravestone. 

Because he’s sentimental like that. 

“What about that one?”

Lance looks up to see Keith pointing to a tree a couple down from the one he was looking at. He’s already walking toward it, gesturing to it offhandedly before crossing his arm back over his chest. “It’s manageable. Full branches. A decent price—“

“Nope,” Lance says, already shaking his head. 

Keith frowns at him, brows furrowing. “Why not?” 

Lance gives him a flat stare. “Keith, it’s shorter than you.”

Keith arches a brow. “So?”

“Soooo, it’s not...” He trails off, lips pursing and hand waving around. “ _Christmas_ -y enough!”

Keith huffs a sigh, breath puffing out white between his lips. “Lance, what does that even _mean_?”

“Everyone knows trees have to be taller than you,” he says with an offhanded shrug of his shoulders. 

Keith just gives him a blank stare. “I’m pretty sure that’s not a rule.”

“It is!” Lance insists with a scoff, lifting his chin a little as he turns, dismissing Keith’s choice as his eyes scan over the other prospects. “If I don’t have to struggle to put the star on top, then what’s the point?”

“I don’t see the problem with a short tree,” Keith mumbles behind him, and he glances over his shoulder to see— Yup, definitely a pout. A cute little pout with furrowed brows and plump lips pursed. _Cute_. 

Lance feels his lips quirk into a small smirk. “You just want a tree that makes you feel taller.”

Keith’s gaze snaps to his, eyes narrowing. “Lance, I’m not that—“

“Whatever you say, buddy,” he says, closing the gap between them and slinging his arm around Keith’s shoulders, pulling him in close and leaning over to rest his head against Keith’s. He fits so well against Lance’s side, warm and hard, like a jagged puzzle piece that just happens to match up to his own. His hair curls out from beneath his black beanie, tickling Lance’s cheek and neck. 

He wants to turn his head and press his lips to Keith’s cheek. His nose. His lips. Feel the chill of the air on his skin. 

The mistletoe in his pocket is an insistent reminder in his pocket, fingers playing with the stem. Heart hammering against his ribs. Lungs drawing in shallow breaths. Nerves tingling along his arms. Legs shaking—

“So short,” he says instead, breath coming out with a sigh. It sounds amused and light hearted, but it feels like defeat. 

Later, he tells himself. Later.

Keith doesn’t pull away from him, and he counts that as a win.

“Where are we going?” Keith asks after a moment of walking in silence as Lance steers him through the rows of trees back to the parking lot. 

“Back to the car.”

“What?” Keith stops, and Lance keeps going, arm slipping away from his shoulders and hand diving into his pocket as he turns around to walk backwards. Keith watches him, brows furrowed and lips twisted in confusion.

Lance shrugs. “The perfect tree wasn’t here. We’ve still got at least three more places to go.”

Keith gapes at him, brows raising and mouth falling open. Lance turns as he reaches the old pickup truck Hunk let him borrow for the day. It’s a little worse for wear, worn leather seats and chipped gold paint, but it’s sturdy and reliable. He opens the driver’s side door and eyes Keith expectantly. Finally, Keith sighs. “No wonder Hunk ditched you.”

Lance scoffs as they both slide into their seats, slamming the door shut behind him as he turns the key in the ignition. “Excuse you, Hunk usually goes to _at least_ five or six different places before he settles on a tree.”

As the engine roars to life before settling down into a loud, vibrating hum, Lance glances over, smirking as he catches Keith gaping at him, lips parted and eyes wide. “... You’re kidding.”

Lance just smirks as he throws the truck into reverse. “I wish I was, dude. I really wish I was.”

* * *

“I have a good feeling about this one,” Lance says, shifting the truck into park and cutting the engine. In front of them sprawls yet another grouping of Christmas trees, all fenced in, lined up in rows, dangling lights from above. Another place, a different name, but Lance has a _feeling_ about this one. 

He can’t really explain it. Maybe it’s just hopeful optimism. Maybe it’s just impatience. Maybe it’s the plant burning a hole in his pocket or his nerves beginning to fray. Either way, he’s got a _feeling_. 

“You’ve said that about the last two places,” Keith grumbles, unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing his door open before slipping out into the evening chill. 

“Yeah, but this time I _mean_ it,” he says as they come around the car, meeting up in front of it and walking side by side into the makeshift mini forest. 

As thrilled as he is to have Keith here with him, it turns out they can’t agree on anything. 

Lance wants a _big_ tree. His family has always gotten a big tree. Something that pushes the limits of their ceilings. A big tree means more ornaments, and with a big family comes a _lot_ of ornaments. A lot of ornaments, a whole evening of decorating the tree, taking turns through the years for who gets to put the star on top. It’s not Christmas if someone isn’t being lifted onto someone else’s shoulders to reach the top. 

Keith, by comparison, is drawn to the short trees. The small ones. They’re more practical, he says. Easier to manage while still clearly being tree-like. Less branches means less of a clean up. Less branches means more simplistic decorating. Being short means they can reach everywhere on the tree. A small tree makes more sense in his apartment, and Lance _knows_ that, but it’s hard to give up a time honored tradition. 

Besides, Hunk likes big trees, too. Last year they settled on a tree that barely fit through their front door, the top of which folded against the ceiling. It took up far too much room in the corner, and they had to rearrange the living room to fit it, but it had been worth it. 

Keith doesn’t seem to get it, but it’s cute. It’s cute to see him pout and grumble when Lance says a tree is too short. He likes bickering with Keith when he tries to keep Lance from getting a tree that’s too big. It’s not heated. Neither of them are frustrated. Just friendly jabs, pokes, and prods. It’s comfortable, and more often than not, their words are accompanied by a poorly concealed smile. 

Unfortunately, all the bickering means tree hunting takes a lot longer than he anticipated. 

Fortunately, all the extra time gives him more opportunities to put his plan into action.

Not that he’s taking any of them, however. 

The plan had been simple in design, but ingenious all the same. Hell, even Pidge was impressed. Hunk teared up a little bit when he ran it by him, giving Lance his blessing and gracefully stepping aside so Lance could take Keith tree hunting alone, despite the fact that Hunk _loves_ tree hunting. He owes him big time. 

The plan itself? Carry a mistletoe with him, and when the time seems right, pull it out and charm his way into a smooch. Follow up by spilling his guts in a hopefully romantic fashion that doesn’t resemble word vomit and ask the boy out. Hopefully boy says yes. Then boom, boyfriend status acquired. 

Easy in theory. Harder in execution. 

The mistletoe is so simple and innocent, but it’s burning a hole in his pocket. Every time he touches it, his heart speeds up, breath comes short, and anxious nerves make his limbs shake. He’s gotten so far as to grip the stem between his fingers, whole arm tensed as he waited to pull it out— but then Keith had looked at him, had _smiled_ , and Lance’s knees turned to jelly, along with the rest of his nerves. 

He wants to do it. Oh boy, does he want to do it. Keith looks so fucking cute, snuggled up in his leather jacket, red scarf nestled around his neck, black beanie on with hair curling around the edges. Cheeks and nose pink. Dark eyes reflective and expressive. Smile small and secretive as he gazes at Lance. A secret between just the two of them. A smile meant just for him. 

God _fuck_ , he wants to kiss this boy.

But he... just can’t.

Their friends think Lance stands a good shot. They tease him a good deal, but they wouldn’t have encouraged him if they knew it was doomed to fail. They’re not that cruel. Embarrassing himself is one thing, humiliating himself is another. But even with their encouragements, he can’t quite bring himself to just... _do_ it. 

Because there’s always that voice in the back of his mind. _What if_. What if Keith says no. What if he doesn’t feel the same way. What if this just makes it awkward from here on out. Lance can deal with awkward, what he can’t deal with is losing Keith as a friend. 

He has everything to gain, but everything to lose. And that has the mistletoe weighing his pocket down with far more uncertainty that he was planning on. 

At the last few places, he’s chickened out more times than he’d like to count. He builds himself up to it, talks himself up, steels himself and lifts his chin, fingers curling around the stem as he strides toward Keith. And then Keith turns around, and Lance stops in his tracks, blood pounding in his ears. Keith is just... way too good for him. Way out of his league. He’s lucky that he even wants to be his friend, and pushing his luck seems like a terrifying prospect.

So he ends up not doing anything. And with each failed attempt, another weight is added to his shoulders, to his heart, pulling him down, putting a slump to his posture and a drag in his steps. 

His plan had seemed so good, and now he’s doubting every decision that has led up to it. 

He ends up trudging after Keith through the rows of trees. He points out the bigger trees out of habit more than anything, unable to hide the small smile that tugs at his lips when Keith rolls his eyes and bumps him with his shoulder before walking away, leaving Lance to trail after him. Whenever Keith points out a small tree, Lance just scoffs, muttering something under his breath that has Keith shoving him again. Only for him to shove back, laughter on the tip of their tongues.

It’s familiar, and it’s comfortable. 

They walk side by side, arms brushing, shoulders bumping. Keith's hands hang at his sides instead of in his pockets, exposed fingertips from his impractical gloves tempting in the lamplight. Lance wants to reach out and take his hand, pull it into his own pocket under the guise of keeping him warm. 

But he doesn’t. 

His hands curl into fists, ignoring the press of mistletoe against his knuckles. 

He’s lost in thought, staring up at a tree that’s tall enough that even he has to admit it’ll never fit through their door. Maybe he should have let Hunk come with them. At least then Hunk would have been the backbone he needs and a constant source of encouragement when his doubts get the best of him. But no, he wanted to do this on his own. He was certain that he could. He should have known better. Should have known his steeled nerves would melt when faced with Keith’s beautiful, stupid smile. Pretty eyes. Pink little, delicate nose. The way he tilts his head just slightly, making his bangs fall across his forehead, eyes squinting and sparkling with amusement as his smile raises his cheeks—

“Lance.”

He snaps out of his reverie, back straightening as his head whips around at the sound of his name. He automatically lifts a leg, spinning on his heel and starting off in his direction, drawn to him inexplicably like a moth to a flame. He’s standing a few yards away, and when Lance raises an eyebrow in silent question, he gestures to the tree beside him. 

“What about this one?” He looks proud of himself. Certain. Confident in that way that’s so completely Keith. Whole being on board with an idea. No room for doubt.

Lance stops next to him, turning to inspect the tree in question. The first thing he notices is that it’s not as short or small as all the other trees Keith has pointed out. In fact, it’s taller than Lance. Not quite as tall as some of the ones he’s been looking at, but not bad. He eyes the top of it curiously, lips pursed in thought, nodding slowly. Despite the tip being a little bent, he thinks he’d have to stretch to reach it, but it would definitely fit comfortably in his apartment, which is perfect. 

Then his eyes trail down the rest of the tree. As it turns out, it’s height is the only thing perfect about it. The branches are a little lopsided. Not overly so, but enough that it gives the tree an odd shape, bigger on one side than the other. Off balance. The branches are a little patchy, thicker in some places and thinner in others. Enough so that he can see straight through to the trunk in a couple spots. The lower branches hang low, looking detached from the rest of the tree and brushing the ground, as if they might fall off at any moment. 

Lance’s lips twist a little as he slowly walks around the tree, inspecting it closely, poking at branches and running his gloved hands along the pine. Normally, he would have dismissed it already, or at least given running commentary on why it was anything but perfect, but the look Keith had given him makes him hold his tongue. Keith had looked so _sure_ . So certain. He had looked at Lance like he _knew_ this was The One, and honestly, Lance is just trying to find what Keith sees in it. 

It’s patchy. Lopsided. A little bent. Branches uneven. Needles shedding. 

“I know it’s not... much,” Keith says as Lance comes around the other side of the tree. He glances up, surprised to find Keith shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingers flexing at his sides before he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s pointedly not making eye contact, instead keeping his eyes glued on the tree, the ground, the space around them. “It’s... not perfect or anything,” he says with a shrug, like he’s trying to look offhanded and indifferent. 

The tone of his voice ruins the illusion, though. There’s something there. Something that clues Lance into the fact that while he’s trying to brush it off, Keith cares about this a lot more than he wants to admit. Lance just watches him, straightening a little, hands in his pockets, tree beside him forgotten.

“But it’s the right height. You have to stretch, or whatever, and it’ll fit in your apartment,” Keith continues when Lance remains silent, a rambling to fill the silence. To explain himself. It’s as odd as it is fascinating. Usually that’s what Lance does. Not Keith. “It’s not too big, so it won’t take up a lot of room. You can hide the bad spots against the wall or something. It’s not _perfect_ , but it’s... it has character. It’s unique, even though it’s different.” His eyes drift downward, brows furrowing as he stares hard at his boots, toe of them idly digging at the dirt. “And if we don’t take it, I’m not sure anyone else will.”

He says the last part like a begrudging mumble, like a secret he’s not really willing to let go of but does anyway. 

Lance looks at the tree, looks over its patches and low hanging branches, its lopsided look and twisted limbs. He thinks Keith is right. If they don’t take it, he’s not sure anyone else will. No one wants a broken looking tree. They want perfect. Symmetrical. Full. 

They don’t want small. Broken. Patchy. Lopsided. Odd. 

His gaze drifts back to Keith, and a lot of things click into place. A lot of things that have his gut twisting and his heart aching. The mistletoe in his pocket burns more than ever, a heavy weight that matches the one in his chest. Keith continues to stare at the ground, face pinched, arms crossed, boot mercilessly digging into the dirt. 

He wants to kiss this boy. Wants to hold him tight and kiss him until all that tension leaves him, until he sees himself the way Lance does. Until he smiles again. 

Instead he looks back at the tree. Looks it over from bottom to top. Stares up at the tip, and... yeah, he can totally see his star perched up there. 

“It’s perfect,” he says, voice soft, genuine. 

“Really?” Keith sounds a little breathless, and when Lance tilts his head to look at him, he’s looking at him with wary disbelief. 

So Lance smiles, small and soft, tries to convey everything in that smile and hopes it gets across. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s perfect.”

* * *

“Shouldn’t Hunk be helping you decorate?” Keith asks from where he’s crouched on the floor, picking through ornaments in the box on the coffee table. 

“Nah, well, yeah, probably, but he said it’s alright. As long as we set aside his Star Trek ornaments so he can put those up,” Lance says, offhandedly gesturing to the pile of boxes on the other end of the table. Hunk has a bit of a collection. One that started when he was younger. Nearly ten fancy ornaments, most of which make some sort of sound, all of which make those sounds the second they plug the tree it. It makes for a jumbled mess, but it sounds like home. 

He finishes draping the last line of lights around the tree before shuffling over to the outlet, plugging it in and stepping back, hands on his hips to admire his handiwork. The lights aren’t perfectly spaced. They aren’t even. They had to go up or down to compensate for the lopsided branches, but the sporadic randomness of it all gives it, like Keith had said, character. He finds that he likes it.

“Perfect,” he says, grinning as he turns to Keith, who’s eyeing the tree with a small smile on his lips before he catches Lance watching him. He looks down quickly, burying his eyes in the ornament box, but not before Lance catches sight of the pink on his cheeks. This time he knows it’s not from the cold. 

“I can’t believe you still have these,” Keith says, lifting a couple ornaments from the box. They’re simple silver bulbs, but there’s paint on them that decorate them into something special. Messy designs, sloppy words. One with Hunk’s name and the other with Lance’s. Both marked with the year they joined Altea University. They had made them at the Christmas floor meeting their RA had made them attend their freshman year. They had sat around with the rest of the people from their floor making cheap ornaments, shoved into a corner with Keith and Pidge. 

“Of course we still have them,” Lance scoffs, crouching down next to him and reaching over to dig through the box. “We should also have... AHA! Yours and Pidge’s, too,” he says proudly, lifting up his hands to dangle the two ornaments in question, one decorated in red and the other in green. He grins, displaying them proudly.

Keith cringes. “They’re so ugly.”

Lance sticks out his bottom lip, brows furrowing. “Excuse you, these are _memories_. And memories are beautiful.” He stands, walking over to the tree to hang Keith and Pidge’s ornaments front and center, where they can both be displayed proudly. “We should have ones made by Shiro, Allura, Matt, and Coran in there, too.”

“Why do you keep all of them?” Keith asks, hands full of ornaments as he stands and makes his way over to Lance’s side, taking his time picking each branch and hanging each ornament with far more care than necessary. It makes Lance’s chest squeeze, fondness a warmth bubbling in his stomach. 

He shrugs, going back to pick up more ornaments to keep his hands busy. Before he does something stupid. Like go over to where he’s abandoned his jacket and pull out that goddamn mistletoe. “In my family, we almost never throw away ornaments. No matter how shitty or old or ridiculous they are. If they break, we try to fix them. We have so many ugly ones that we all made in grade school, and a bunch of really stupid ones my parents have gotten as gag gifts over the years. But each one is special, and each one is a memory. We keep them, and we use them every year, and I just... can’t imagine christmas without them.” 

He knows he’s smiling. He can feel it at the edges of his mouth, tugging upward like it always does when he thinks about his family’s traditions. When he feels Keith’s eyes on him, he glances over, seeing him watching him through his lashes. He looks away quickly, clearing his throat and stepping around the tree to hang more ornaments. 

“Hunk’s family basically has the same kinda tradition. So since we can’t really go home for the holidays anymore, we decided to start saving ornaments a couple years ago so we could build up our own collection.”

“That’s...” Keith starts, trailing off. Lance peeks around the tree to see him standing there, eyes soft and lidded as he hangs an ornament of a chili pepper sitting in an outhouse with the door cracked open. One of the gag gifts from his older brother a couple years ago, and one of his favorites. Keith’s smile is small. Small enough that Lance isn’t sure it really counts. But it makes his entire expression soften all the same. Makes Lance’s insides do little flips. “That’s really cute. I like that.”

“And now you’re apart of it,” Lance says, grinning as he comes around the tree. He walks across the living room to the kitchen, picking up the ornament he left sitting there, carefully out of sight. “Well, you already _were_ , technically, but now even more so.” He turns, brandishing it with a flourish. 

Keith has been watching him, brow arched curiously, but as his eyes settle on the ornament that dangles from Lance’s fingers, his eyes widen, mouth dropping open. 

“Oh my god. You didn’t.”

“I did,” Lance says proudly, striding back across the apartment. In his hands is the robot they attempted to make out of paperclips and rubber bands a week ago, while locked away in the library and both in desperate need to procrastinate. It’s not a pretty robot. It barely even _looks_ like a robot. But it’s theirs. Lance made a chain out of more paper clips to hang it with and tied of the end with a red ribbon. 

“I can’t believe you kept that,” Keith says, but it’s just an ounce too breathless and amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes. 

“I told you, Keith. Memories,” he says, putting himself into a low bow and holding out the makeshift ornament. He looks up at him through his lashes, lopsided smirk curving his lips. “Would you do the honors of putting it on the tree for the first time?”

“Oh my god,” Keith mumbles, but he’s smiling, barely contained laughter in his words, and he takes the paperclip monstrosity in careful fingers. “You are such a dork.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, straightening, bumping his hip against Keith’s as he walks by, shooting him a playful wink. “But you seem to like hanging out with me.”

He’s prepared for a roll of his eyes. For a playful scoff. For a mumbled _whatever Lance_ . What he’s _not_ prepared for, is the fond look Keith sends him and the curiously soft, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

* * *

“Keith get on my back.” 

“We can just get a chair—“

“No, there’s no time.”

“Lance, what the fuck—“

“Just get on my back!”

“We can just use a chair!”

“That’s no fun! Get on my back!”

“You’re going to drop me. You’re like a toothpick.”

“Oh my— Keith, for fucks sake, you’re not exactly a bodybuilder yourself. Now get on my back before I hoist you over my shoulder fireman style, and I guarantee you it’s a _lot_ harder to put a star on the tree that way.”

He glares at Keith over his shoulder from where he’s crouched in front of him, arms positioned by his sides and reads to pick Keith up. If he’d actually _get on his back_. Keith just glares right back for a moment before his eyes go to the star Lance had shoved into his hands before his gaze lifts to the top of the tree. 

“Why do I have to do it, anyway?”

“Because you’re the _guest_.”

“But it’s _your_ tree!”

“We have a tradition that we take turns. I did it last year anyway, and it’s your first time decorating our tree, so the job is rightfully yours.”

“But—“

“Keith, I _want_ you to do it. Now get on my back and let’s do this.”

Keith huffs, but finally concedes, shoulders slumping just a fraction in defeat as he shuffles forward. He hesitates for a moment before climbing onto Lance’s back, uncertain hands wrapping frantically around Lance’s shoulders when he stands up quickly. Lance smirks but says nothing as he walks over to the tree, turning a bit sideways so Keith can stretch up and carefully put the star on top.

They wait for a moment, Keith’s hand hovering nearby in case it falls. When they’re certain it’s good, Lance steps back, Keith still on his back as they look over the tree. 

“Perfect,” Lance says with a decisive nod, smile spreading his lips as he takes it all in. 

“Yeah...” Keith mumbles, soft as he sighs contently, arms wrapping lazily around Lance’s shoulders, head tilting to lean against his. 

All it would take is for him to turn his head. They’re close enough. He could easily capture Keith’s lips with his own. 

But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, enjoys the warmth and weight of Keith on his back, cursing himself for not thinking about just hanging the goddamn mistletoe in the apartment instead. 

* * *

He ends up deciding the plan is a bust. 

If plants had eyes, the stupid mistletoe would be glaring at him from across the room, from where it sits abandoned in his jacket pocket. As it stands, he can practically _feel_ it judging him. Feels it like a weight on his heart. A pit in his stomach. A sliver of sour disappointment that’s wedged into his spine.

But that’s okay. Maybe he’ll try again another day. For now, he’s nestled up against Keith on the couch. The lights are off, save for the Christmas lights coming from the tree in the corner of the room. They’re on their second movie, empty popcorn bowl and two mugs on the coffee table in front of them. He’s changed into a t-shirt and his fleece pajama pants, and Keith has borrowed a shirt and a pair of sweats.

It makes paying attention to the movie difficult. With Keith all comfy in his clothes, nestled up under a blanket that they’re sharing, curled up next to him. _Especially_ when he leans his head against Lance’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. pressed up against his side in the best of ways. 

Lance isn’t really sure what’s going on movie-wise, but he doesn’t really care. Doesn’t really care that his plan never got put into action. Because when it comes down to it, he’s warm, he’s comfortable, and he’s curled up on the couch with Keith. And really... that’s what’s important. He’ll take it. He can wait for the rest. If there’s a rest. And if there’s not, if this is all he’s gonna get, well... he’ll deal with that, too. As long as it means Keith will stay in his life. As long as he gets to have moments like these. 

At some point Keith sits up, stretching his hands over his head with a groan as his back pops, blanket falling loosely around his waist. Lance watches as he stands up, admiring how his shirt is a little too long on him. How the sweatpants hang low on his hips and pool around his ankles. 

“Want another round?” Keith asks, reaching out to take the two empty mugs and turning to lift a brow at Lance. 

He nods, pulling the blanket further around him in Keith’s absence. “Sounds good, dude.”

Keith shuffles away to the kitchen, and Lance can hear him setting the mugs down, digging around in the cupboards, starting the water to boil. He breathes in deep and sighs loud and long through his nose. He finally feels like he can breathe, but his side is cold and his chest aches. 

He zones out, eyes on the tv screen without really seeing it. He hopes Keith won’t ask him what he’s missed when he comes back, because Lance won’t be able to tell him. He doesn’t hear the soft shuffle of socked feet leave the kitchen. Doesn’t realize Keith is coming up behind him until a hand falls over his eyes, soft palms, calloused fingers. 

“Uh, Keith?” He asks, stiffening, wariness creeping into his tone. The hand over his eyes pull his head back until it’s resting on the back of the couch, turned toward the ceiling. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s not uncomfortable either. “Can I help you?”

The hand lifts from his face, and he blinks for a moment as his eyes refocus. Keith is standing behind the couch, leaning over him. The hand that had been over his eyes now rests on the back of the couch beside his head. The other—

Lance freezes. Feels his blood run cold. Stomach dropping even as his heart lodges itself in his throat. His eyes widen, zeroing in on the mistletoe that Keith is holding in his other hand. 

“Uh—“ he says, voice cracking minutely and praying to _fuck_ that Keith hadn’t heard that. He licks his lips, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. His eyes flicker from the mistletoe to Keith’s face. “Where’d you get that?”

Keith doesn’t look at him. He leans forward, propping his elbow on the back of the couch instead of his hand, putting him that much closer. Oh god, he’s so close. His face is relaxed, almost indifferent as he stares at the plant in his hand, spinning the stem idly between his fingers. 

“Your jacket pocket,” he hums thoughtfully, turning the plant over as if inspecting it. Though Lance knows that he knows _exactly_ what it is. “You’ve been fiddling with your pocket and acting weird all night. I wanted to know what you were hiding.” His eyes flicker to Lance’s then, pinning him with his gaze. His dark irises reflect the colorful lights from the Christmas tree. “Lance,” he says slowly, honest curiosity and what Lance dares to think is _amusement_ lifting the edges of his tone. “Was this supposed to be a date?”

And honestly, Lance really just wants to fucking die on the spot. His face feels like it’s burning. His heart is trying to break its way through his ribs. He’s not really sure how he’s still breathing. Or if he even is at all. He contemplates the merit of escaping to his room, locking himself away and refusing to come out until Keith leaves. 

But he catches sight of the small smile curving the edges of his lips. The barest little tilt. The way his eyes soften, going half lidded as he gazes down at him. There’s no judging there. Nothing to suggest he’s upset at this turn of events. There’s amusement, yeah, but it’s not... it’s not a _bad_ kind of amusement. 

It’s what gives Lance the courage to open his mouth and say, “It is if you want it to be.” It comes out as a soft whisper, but he’s proud of how it doesn’t waver. 

And then the impossible happens. 

Keith leans down and kisses him. 

It’s soft. Not hesitant or uncertain, but soft and gentle all the same. Lips chapped and warm. Lips that Lance has spent so long staring at. Lips that taste like salt and popcorn and chocolate. Lips that taste like _Keith_. 

The kiss is a question and an answer, all in one. This kiss is everything Lance ever hoped for and yet completely new and foreign. His toes curl in delight, warmth flaring down his spine. He feels dizzy and lightheaded, and now he’s pretty sure he’s having trouble breathing, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. 

When Keith pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to meet Lance’s eyes. To smile in a way that has Lance smiling back. 

And then he’s reaching up, grabbing Keith by the shoulders and catching him off guard as he pulls, awkwardly wrestling Keith over the back of the couch. He falls into his lap in a mess of limbs, earning a pained grunt from both of them, but Lance doesn’t really care. He cups Keith’s cheeks and pulls him forward, kissing him fully. Kissing him more purposefully. Kissing him with everything he’s got. Trying to convey all the things he doesn’t know how to put into words. 

There’s only a moment of surprised hesitation before Keith is relaxing into him, kissing him back with enough vigor that Lance groans low in his throat, contentment and thrill sweeping through him like a storm. Arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers curl into his hair, but all he can focus on are the lips beneath his own. 

“Don’t crush the mistletoe,” he says against Keith’s mouth, breath coming heavy and matching Keith’s. He can feel the plant tight in Keith’s grip, pressing against his shoulder and neck. “I want to save it.”

“Oh my god,” Keith whispers against his lips, knocking their foreheads together as breathless laughter escapes him. “You’re going to turn it into an ornament, aren’t you?”

Lance just grins, admiring how Keith looks this close, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, framed perfectly by his lashes, lips red and wet. “You bet your sweet ass I am.”

Keith groans, but it’s good natured, burying his face in Lance’s neck. “You’re such a fucking _sap_.”

Lance holds him tight, laugh bubbling up at the ridiculousness of the situation, of the happiness burning warm and bright inside him, of how impossible it all seems but how delightfully _perfect_ Keith feels in his arms. “Yeah, but you like it.”

“Yeah,” Keith mumbles, pressing his lips against the crook of Lance’s neck. “Yeah, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	7. You've Got Me Like Spoilers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - soulmates - fluff - growing up - 6,846 words
> 
> _From the moment we’re born, we’re connected to a soulmate. Our other half. A soul that we’re bound to time and time again. Throughout our lifetimes. And every time we are reborn, the first words we’ll hear our soumate say is inked onto our skin._
> 
> _Unfortunately for Keith, his words ended up being a spoiler for a well known and beloved book-to-movie series._
> 
> _“Man I can’t believe Dumbledore died"_

When he was born, the words written on his palm were too small to read. Tiny, scrunched, and lost in the chubby folds of his hand. The doctors had tried to read it. He heard from his parents that the doctors tried to spread his palm, using a magnifying glass to get a closer look. But they could only make out a couple words. 

They documented what they could on his birth certificate and handed it to his parents with apologies. 

As he grew older and as he grew, so did his soulmark. Two lines of smudged black ink finally began to take form. Became legible. Day by day. Year by year. 

His parents updated his birth certificate, but he remembers them doing so with furrowed brows and pursed lips. 

He remembers the odd looks they would give his right hand when they thought he wasn’t looking. 

Strange looks caught in the corner of his eye. 

Strange expressions caught beneath the shaggy curtain of his fringe. 

Unspoken words that turned to smiles when they caught him looking, turned up a fraction too bright. 

When he was old enough to understand the meaning of soulmarks but too young to read, he asked his parents what his said. He remembers the way they shared uncertain looks before picking him up, sitting him on their laps, holding him close while they said part of the magic was growing up and learning to read it himself. 

So he waited. 

He worked hard when they started to learn their letters in school. 

Focused on the strange combination of letters inked onto his palm. 

He remembers the day he finally was able to read the words. The first thing he would ever hear his soulmate say. His perfect match. His destined partner. 

_ Man I can’t believe Dumbledore died _

He remembers how the excitement and adrenaline had soured into a deep seeded confusion. 

* * *

The confusion didn’t clear up as he got older. If anything, it grew worse. Bigger. Deeper. Twisted. More complicated. 

Death wasn’t something that a child should have to think about, but Keith found himself thinking about it a lot. 

Apparently the death of someone called  _ Dumbledore _ was what would bring him together with his soulmate. From a tragedy would come a fated union. 

He felt strange butterflies at the thought of meeting his soulmate. Who wouldn’t?

But with that thought came the guilt. The realization that by looking forward to meeting his soulmate, he was looking forward to someone’s death. 

Logically, there wasn’t anything he could do to prevent this death. Just as there was nothing he could do to prevent the meeting of his soulmate. So he shouldn’t have to feel guilty? But he did. But he didn’t. But then he felt guilty for not truly feeling guilty.

It lead to a lot of strange, existential questions about the nature of life and death and their soul connections. They weren’t questions children should ask. Not something that children thought about. They worried his parents and his teachers, but they understood why he was asking. 

He didn’t exactly have a conventional childhood because of it. 

Run around. Climb trees. Scrap knees. Get into fights. Play in the river. Ride his bike. Crash his bike. Look at the stars. Question the nature of his existence and how he relates to that of others. 

His parents worried. They told him not to think about it too much. Told him that the universe works in mysterious ways. He’d find out eventually. 

But that didn’t stop him from wondering.

* * *

Around the age of nine, he came to the conclusion that  _ Dumbledore _ was a pretty weird name.

He’d never met any Dumbledores. Never heard the name spoken on the streets or in stores. He even spent several years looking through phone books when his parents weren’t paying attention. No Dumbledores. 

And so he constructed two theories: either this Dumbledore was a teacher or a pet. 

Teachers had weird names. Pets had weirder names. His thought process was flawless. 

By this time his soulmark had become popular among his classmates. Everyone had soulmarks. A lot of people had weird soulmarks. Some were very common and plain. 

_ Hey, do you know what time it is? _

_ What can I get for you? _

_ Oh, excuse me, didn’t see you there. _

Some people had ones that were weirder, more unexpected. 

_ How many oreos do you think I can fit in my mouth at once? _

_ I would probably punch a man for a donut.  _

_ I wrote my paper drunk last night and woke up to my essay being titled “Ahh Real Monsters”.  _

There were so many that he had seen over the years. Sharing soulmarks on the playground with pride, brandishing them like one would a unique talent or trait. 

_ No running by the pool! _

_ Come here often? _

_ Fuck off, Susan, I don’t need your sass. _

But so few were actually unique. Most were common phrases. Simple things. Boring things. 

_ Can I borrow a pencil? _

_ I like your shirt. _

_ Hey, you dropped this. _

The one thing they all had in common was the fact that most gave the impression of a situation. Enough of one that they could imagine what they would be doing when they met their soulmate. Something to daydream of. Something to look forward to. 

_ Hey, name’s Jeff. I’m your lab partner.  _

_ Can I have a combo number five with a large coke? _

_ Welcome, everyone, to this years light show! _

Keith had never met someone else who’s soulmark involved death, and that made him unique. Made his soulmark mysterious. Made his words popular on the playground. 

No one knew of a pet named Dumbledore. No one had heard of any teachers by that name. 

Keith was certain it had to be one of those things. 

* * *

His world came crashing down at the age of twelve.

He was busy working on his math homework at the kitchen table when his cousin Shiro came crashing through the front door. 

“Keith!” He shouted, tripping over his feet in an attempt to kick off his shoes. “*Keith!”

“He’s at the table!” His mom called from the kitchen. 

Next thing Keith knew, Shiro was vaulting over the back of the couch, nearly colliding with the coffee table, and practically charging toward him. 

“Shiro, what—“

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Shiro had one hand already digging through his backpack and slammed a book down on the table, right on top of Keith’s homework. 

He blinked, eyes roaming over the cover. It wasn’t familiar. Not at the time. His brow furrowed, lips pursing into a small frown. “Harry Potter?” He remembers looking to Shiro, even more confused by the bright grin on his face. “You know I don’t like reading.”

Shiro laughed. Loud and breathless. “I know, but check this out.” His bag hit the ground, leaning over the table to grab the book, flipping through it rapidly, fingers scrambling through the pages, eyes darting all over the words. “I know it’s around here somewhere— a-hA! Here! Keith, look!”

He turned the book to face Keith once more, slamming it down with a finality that wasn’t entirely necessary, jabbing a finger at the page, right at the word— 

Keith gasped, grabbing the book and scrambling to his feet, nearly toppling backwards out of his chair. “Wha—“ He couldn’t complete the word, let alone the thought. He just stared at the word on the pages. Flipped through the pages. Saw it repeated. Over and over again.

_ Dumbledore _ .

He stared at Shiro.

“I came over as soon as I saw it,” he said, grinning wide. “We finally found the mysterious Dumbledore, and he’s a character in a book!” Shiro’s words end in a small laugh. It’s one of victory. Excitement. Certainly more than Keith was feeling. 

And then it faded. Slowly. Laugh trailing off as his smile slipped from his face. Several things pass over his expression. Realization. Shock. Frustration. Weary acceptance. 

“Oh fu— That means Dumbledore  _ dies _ .” He put one heavy hand to his face, dragging it down slowly as the other perched on his hip. “Talk about spoilers, dude.”

Keith just stared. At Shiro. At the book. At the word that had been branded into his palm since birth. A word that had always held an air of mystery. A man. A teacher. A pet. A death that meant the meeting of his soulmate. 

And he turned out to be just a character in a book. 

Keith’s gut bubbled. Heat and anger and disappointment and all things ugly welling up inside him. He slammed the book down onto the table and shouted, “ _ Fuck! _ ”

His mom heard and he ended up being grounded for two weeks. 

* * *

He met Katie when he was thirteen.

He wasn’t happy about being forced to go with Shiro when he visited his friend Matt. Wasn’t happy about what felt like a goddamn playdate. He didn’t  _ need _ help making friends. He had, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it.

When they met, she sized him up. Hands on her hips. Eyes narrowed to match his. He stood his ground. Arms crossed over his chest. Scowling down his nose at her. 

She said he had a stupid haircut. 

He said she looked like a gremlin. 

She punched his arm. 

He pinched her neck. 

They smiled. Katie was missing two teeth, and Keith had a Lion King band aid on his cheek. 

They spent the next two hours collecting bugs outside and putting them into a large mason jar that Katie had emptied marbles from. Then they set the bugs lose in Matt’s room and laughed until they cried when the older boys shrieked. 

Then Katie showed him her favorite hiding spot in the woods by their house when Matt and Shiro came after them. 

They’ve been friends ever since.

* * *

It might not have been so bad if Harry Potter hadn’t gotten so fucking popular. If the series hadn’t grown out of control. If the franchise hadn’t been spread and made movies and advertised to the point where even those who hadn’t read the books knew the characters. 

Dumbledore. The old wise wizard. The first fucking character introduced in book one. The headmaster. The old father figure. Beloved. Could do no wrong. 

Yeah. That fucking Dumbledore. 

And Keith  _ knew _ his soulmark was about him, because who the fuck else would be named fucking  _ Dumbledore _ besides a fictional character?

A character that everyone loved.

A character that was on a fucking shining pedestal in the series and throughout the fandom. 

A character that hadn’t died yet because it hadn’t even been fucking  _ written _ yet, but Keith knew that he  _ would _ . 

Keith stopped showing off his soulmark. He shied away from the pouts and glares his classmates sent him when they realized what was no doubt going to be a plot twist of a upcoming beloved series was already ruined for them. 

High school was a pain in the ass. 

Every teacher seemed to get it in their head that they needed to start classes with a break-the-ice share session. They always had to say their name. Maybe a hobby. Maybe a random fact about themselves. Maybe their favorite kitchen appliance. And when the universe was feeling particularly cross with him, they had to share their soulmarks. 

Most people were proud of them. Eager to show them off. Some were shy. Some were embarrassed. But none were as adamant about refusing to share as Keith was. He got detention a few times for attitude problems. 

Not his fault the teacher pushed the issue, and he stood his ground. 

On the times they  _ really _ pissed him off, he shared his soulmark anyway, reveling in the groans and glares of his classmates. 

Giving spoilers that hadn’t even been written to a beloved and popular series purely out of spite felt good in the moment.

But it didn’t earn him any friends. 

He started wearing fingerless gloves. 

If he was asked, he said it was because he thought they looked cool. And he did. But aesthetic was an easy excuse for hiding his soulmarks from the light of day. 

He started to resent his soulmate and the universe for making him a walking spoiler.

* * *

Katie ended up being a huge Harry Potter fan. 

  1. _Huge_. Fan.



She loved it. Wanted to talk about it. Was upset that Keith wouldn’t share that interest with her. She tried to get Keith into the books many, many times. Keith was adamant about refusing to do so. But he wouldn’t tell her why, and that just made her pestering worse.

She was also adamant about finding out what his soulmark said. It was something that friends just  _ did _ . Shared soulmarks. Talked about that sort of thing. But Keith always kept his hidden. He tried to tell her that it had nothing to do with her. That it was just something he didn’t like sharing with people. That she wouldn’t want to see it anyway. 

She ended up slipping his glove off at a sleepover and reading his soulmark while he was asleep. 

He woke up to her hitting him with a pillow, screaming something incoherent about spoilers. 

That night she vowed to fight Keith’s soulmate when they found him. 

* * *

At the age of seventeen, Keith said goodbye to Katie forever. 

And welcomed Pidge into the slot of his best friend. 

They started wearing thick bracelets on their left arm, effectively hiding the words that read  _ Hey, are you Katie Holt? _

Not that they had anything against their birth name. It was just uncomfortable having to stare at it every day, inked in black across their inner wrist. 

Neither of them talked about it, but Keith knew. It was a whole conversation that passed silently between them. Shared in a lingering gaze. Soft eyes glistening in the light. A slight press of the lips. A knowing nod. 

A quiet solidarity in feeling the need to hide their soulmarks, no matter how different their reasons.

* * *

Despite his reluctance and stubborn refusals, Keith  _ did _ end up reading the books. And watching the movies. And yeah, okay, so many he was pretty firm about the fact that he was a Gryffindor. 

So what? They’re good books. 

He was still fucking bitter about the whole thing though. 

Felt like his whole experience was tainted. Like he would never have the same childlike wonder that most people had when they got into it. He couldn’t even enjoy it casually. He felt like every time he read it. Watched it it.  _ Thought _ about it. There was just this little bitter note in his heart. A little snide sneer on his lips. A hint of spite in the shadows that ruined the whole experience. 

And he knew he shouldn’t, but he blamed his soulmate. 

Pidge blamed his soulmate, too.

And then Matt, when they eventually spoiled it for him. 

Shiro just seemed indifferent about the whole thing, but it had been spoiled for him since the beginning, too.

Point was, they all knew what was going to happen. Eventually. Every time they read a new book release, they spent the whole time with nerves on end, waiting, waiting, wondering if this was going to be the time. 

It never was. 

Disappointment. Relief. More disappointment. 

He was still a walking spoiler. 

He would still have to wait till at least the next book release before he would meet his soulmate. 

Relief. Disappointment. 

* * *

When the sixth book came out, Keith and Pidge went to the midnight release. Pidge wore a cape and a sweater with a Ravenclaw emblem. They even carried a wand. They couldn’t get Keith to dress up, but he did agree to wear his Gryffindor quidditch shirt that they had gotten him at some point. 

They spend the evening crammed in a crowded Barnes & Noble. Barely able to move with the sheer mass of people. They deemed the sponsored events to be extremely lame and ended up sitting in the Maternity section because it was the only one that was empty. 

At midnight, they got in line and bought their books. Keith drove them back to Pidge’s, with a stop at a Walmart to stock up on snacks and energy drinks. 

They both ended up drinking two, and come seven o’clock, when both of them were jittery and unable to close their eyes for longer than two seconds, they started to regret it. 

So they did the only thing they could do: they kept reading. 

By eight o’clock, Pidge had finished the book. Keith wasn’t anywhere close. 

They leapt off the couch, screaming wordlessly, softly, high pitched and crackling. Keith didn’t even look up. Just held up a finger and point to them. “No spoilers.”

They climbed onto the couch, got all up in his space, grabbed his hand with both hands, and leaned in close. “ _ Dumbledore dies _ .” They hissed, eyes sparkling. 

It took Keith five whole seconds to really process that. He knew because later, Pidge told him that they counted. “Holy shit.”

“I know!”

“ _ Holy shit _ .”

_ “I know _ .”

Keith pushed them off the couch and shoved his nose back in his book. He tried to read quickly, but his mind kept skimming over words without really letting them sink in. Making him reread paragraphs and pages. The whole time, his hands were shaking, body trembling, breath coming short and clipped. 

It wasn’t entirely because of the energy drinks. 

* * *

The first year following the release of the sixth book wasn’t a fun one. He felt like he spent the whole time on edge. Wary. Body strung tight. 

The next few years felt like torture. 

He was no longer a walking spoiler. He could openly share his soulmark without really worrying about backlash. It was pretty common knowledge by then. But he’d gotten in the habit of keeping it secret, and he’d gotten in the habit of wearing his gloves. 

The torture part came in with the fact that he knew he could meet his soulmate at anytime. 

Whenever Harry Potter was brought up in conversation, Keith froze. Body going stiff. Lungs barely able to function. Heart beating loudly in his ears. Eyes drifting over the people talking. Trying to find those he had never heard something from. Focusing on the guys. 

Waiting. Waiting to hear those words he had been born with. 

He never did. 

Disappointment. 

Relief. 

After a while, he started to relax. Started to give up hope. He still listened when he overheard people around campus talking about Harry Potter, but there was no longer that spark of hope and adrenaline. 

Just another disappointment. Just another sigh of relief. 

Then the movie was announced, and Keith felt that spark again. 

He wasn’t sure what he would do when he finally found his soulmate. When he finally heard the words that had haunted him. He didn’t know if he would feel glad or simply angry. 

Disappointed? Relieved? 

* * *

They went to the midnight release of the movie. 

Keith very nearly backed out of it. But none of his friends would let him. So he ended up shoved into the backseat of Shiro’s car with Pidge, Matt in the front seat, on their way to the cinema. He was reluctant and nervous, but overall, he was glad they had manhandled him out of the house. 

He was on edge the entire time. They were in a building full of Harry Potter nerds, nearly six theaters full of people, and there were high odds that his soulmate was somewhere among the crowd. 

He could barely focus on conversation while they were waiting in line. He was too attuned to the conversations around him, eyes darting, hesitating on the faces of guys he hadn’t seen before. As soon as they said something that wasn’t the words on his palm, he moved on. 

Constantly searching. Constantly disappointed. Constantly relieved. 

By the time the movie started, he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to happen. 

Halfway through the movie, he had nearly forgotten about it. 

When it was over, he was able to walk out of the theater and actually hold conversation with his friends. 

He ended up leaned up against the wall as Pidge, Matt, and Shiro go to the bathroom, idly scrolling through his phone as people filtered past him as they left the building. 

He wasn’t really listening to the voices around him. Not like he had been earlier. Just letting the voices wash over him and away. 

He couldn’t say what made him tune into one voice in particular. Couldn’t say what made that voice stick out above the others. Couldn’t say why his mind decided to focus on the voice, loud but no louder than those around them, deep but not too deep, excited but not anymore so than the rest of the crowd. 

“Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore  _ died _ !”

Keith felt like he couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened, lungs constricting. A shiver ran down his spine, violent and causing a whole body shudder. 

_ Fire _ . Fire radiating from his hand. Burning in his palm. Shooting up his arm. Heat in his veins. 

He dropped his phone, but he barely heard it hit the ground. The ringing in his ears was deafening. His left hand shook as he reached for his right glove, fingers hooking into the hem of the leather, nails scraping against his wrist as he yanked it down. 

His palm burned, sharp and hot, but it was already fading. And as it faded, the words on his palm, the words he had been born with, the words he had come to love and hate, faded, too. 

Black to white. 

Words that had once been a tattoo now looking like a scar. 

Just a few shades paler than his skin. Looking like a wound that had long since faded. Words still legible, but no longer overtly obvious. 

The pain was gone as quickly as it had come, but it echoed up his arm, tingling and buzzing. 

His soulmate. His words.  _ Soulmate _ . 

He looked up, head spinning, eyes darting over the crowd. 

_ Soulmate _ .

“You already  _ knew _ that, Lance.”

“I  _ know _ , but I forgot!”

Keith’s eyes snap to the source of that voice. That voice. It echoes in his head. Pleasant timber of it vibrating down his spine. 

_ Soulmate _ .

“How could you *forget? It’s kind of a *big deal!”

“I forget like, half of the things I read, dude. You know that. Besides, it’s been forever since I read the book, and it’s not like I think about Harry Potter every day.”

Tall and lanky. Long limbs. Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Pants that clung to his hips. Loose hoodie. Unzipped. Sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Thin wrists. Long fingers. Light brown skin. Short, chestnut hair. Messy. Wispy. Curling at the edges. Upturned nose. Eyes that crinkled when he smiled. 

_ Soulmate _ .

“I’m going to tell Allura you forgot, and she’s going to laugh her ass off.”

“I remembered, like, halfway through the movie!”

He pushed through the door, voice cutting off as he disappeared outside, view of him lost in the flood of people leaving the theater. 

Keith was moving before he registered taking a step. He shoved through the crowd, unapologetic and frantic. Ignoring the shouts and protests that followed him. He slammed against the doors, pushing out into the night, cool air sharp against his heated skin. He paused, looking around—

There. Stepping off the sidewalk and moving into the parking lot with the rest of the crowd. Walking side-by-side with a bigger guy. Talking animatedly with his hands. 

Relief. 

Followed immediately by anger. 

“ _ You!”  _ Keith shouted, stepping off the edge of the sidewalk and storming into the parking lot. 

Everything he had felt. All the confusion. The anxiety. The frustration. It all came crashing through him. A flood. Chaos. Building and churning into a pit of rage. One that burned through him, unable to be controlled. 

The words that had haunted him. The words that made his childhood strange. Made him confused. Made him a walking spoiler. Made him hide his soulmark. Turned his blessing into a shame. Ruined an entire series for him before he ever got a chance to start it. 

The words were finally said, and while he  _ was _ happy that he had finally heard them. While his hand still tingled pleasantly and a buzzing warmth settled in his gut. It was all overshadowed by the frustrated  _ rage _ . 

Keith had always been told that he had a bad habit of reacting strongly to his emotions. He was starting to think there was some truth to that. 

He saw the moment his soulmate froze. Could have  _ sworn _ he saw the shudder run through him. Saw the way his shoulders hiked up to his ears as he turned, eyes going wide as they lock onto Keith.

“You’re the one!” His voice was harsher than he anticipated, but beneath it all, there was a strange breathless quality that he couldn’t quite shake. 

His lungs still felt tight.

He came to a stop in front of his soulmate, keeping enough distance between them to talk, but without getting too close. He didn’t know what he would do if he gets too close. All of his emotions were running too high and it was hard to separate them. His hands were curled into tight fists at his sides, nails biting into the leather. He glared, brows furrowed and lips pursed into a fierce scowl. 

There was a buzzing in his ear, heart hammering in his chest. 

His soulmate— Lance. His friend had called him Lance.  _ Lance _ . 

Lance stared at him, eyes wide. He blinked. Mouth opened, then closed. He lifted his arm, staring down at his forearm before looking back to Keith. His brows pinched, lips pursing just slightly. It looked almost like a pout. 

“You know,” he said, and his voice sent a fresh wave of shivers down Keith’s spine. He rolled his shoulders to shake the sensation. “That’s not really how I imagined that being said.”

“You—“ Keith took a step forward, and it must have been an aggressive step because Lance flinched backwards, hands automatically rising defensively. 

“Keith!” 

He stopped, turning to look over his shoulder as Pidge jogged to catch up to him. “Dude, you dropped your phone,” they said, lifting the device in question. “What the fuck are you doing—“

“Pidge,” he said, cutting them off and jabbing a finger toward Lance. “It’s him.”

Pidge came to a stop at his side. Eyebrow raised, their gaze slid from him, to Lance, and back. “Him?”

“ _ Him _ .” He didn’t know how to articulate it. His mind was buzzing. His ears were buzzing. His heart was hammering. He was pretty sure he was shaking. He felt  _ too much, _ and he felt it  _ all at once _ . 

But there must have been enough emphasis in his voice for Pidge to realize what he meant. A spark lit up their eyes before they narrowed. “Him?” They ask, turning a narrowed gaze to Lance. 

He took another step back. “Whoa, now. Let’s just calm down,” he said, making a motion with his hands. “I don’t really know what’s going on, but—“

“ _ Him _ ,” Keith confirmed with a nod. 

“Holy shit,” Pidge breathed, then shoved his phone into his hand. “I’ve been waiting  _ years _ to do this.” Then they’re shoving the sleeves of their hoodie up to their elbows, taking a threatening step forward. 

“Lance,” The bigger guy—  _ Hunk _ , Lance had called him— was already stepping back, shoulders hunched, eyes worried. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know—“

Pidge stopped in front of him and went up on their toes, slapping him across the face. It echoed. Lance’s head snapped to the side. They all froze. One second. Two. 

Then Pidge grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him down to their level as they jabbed a finger close to his nose. He went cross eyed looking at it. Distantly, Keith registered that as cute. 

“You! Do you even realize what you’ve  _ done? _ ”

“No!” He said, slapping Pidge’s hands and pulling out of their grip. He back peddled quickly, but Pidge kept pace, charging after him. “What are you  _ talking _ about?”

“I’ve been waiting  _ years _ for this.” 

“What the— _ oh my god _ .”

Pidge lunged for him, and he scrambled backwards, nearly falling over his own feet. He turned, sprinting away, and Pidge hauled ass after him. He shrieked, wordless, high pitched. Pidge shouted, but Keith didn’t catch what they said. Hunk turned to him. Asked a question. Keith barely registered it, and definitely didn’t react to it. 

He was left just standing there, staring, chaotic storm inside him, watching as Pidge chased his soulmate around the parking lot. 

They dodged between cars, weaving through people, causing a scene. 

Then Matt was there, picking Pidge off the ground and holding them up as their feet wheeled in open air. 

“ _ Pidge!  _ What are you  _ doing?” _ He grunted, flinching as their flailing elbows came close to his face. 

“It’s him!” Pidge shouted, jabbing a finger toward Lance, who stood bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Matt, it’s  _ him!  _ Keith’s soulmate!”

Matt turned to look at him, eyes going wide and mouth falling open. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “The spoiler king.”

“ _ What? _ ” Lance said, straightening and putting a hand to his chest, voice crawling up in pitch. “I did  _ not— _ “

But then Matt put Pidge down, and the two of them were charging toward Lance. 

“ _ Hunk, get the car! _ ” He screeched as he ran, Pidge and Matt on his heels. 

Then Hunk was running off, but Keith barely noticed before a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to find Shiro there, watching as Lance put a car between himself and the Holts, looking victorious until they each went around a different side. He let out a wordless shout before diving around a group of people. 

“What the hell is going on?” Shiro asked. Not so much angry as utterly confused. Oddly calm, given the strangeness of the situation.

“It’s him,” Keith said, eyes drawn back to Lance.

“Him?”

“Him.”

“As in...?”

Keith nodded. 

“That explains why Matt and Pidge look like they’re about to rip him apart.” A pause. “Are you going to stop it?” 

Keith’s lips purse, frown deepening as he makes a vague motion with his hands. He didn’t know what he was feeling, let alone what to do. What he  _ was _ certain of, however, was the fact that his knees felt weak and his throat felt constricted. 

Shiro just squeezed his shoulder and offered him an understanding smile. 

With a screech of brakes, a old gold buick came to an abrupt stop next to them. “Lance, hurry!”

They turned to see Hunk half leaning out the open driver’s side window. 

Lance ran wide around a couple parked cars, putting space between himself and the Holts. He dove through a crowd, weaving expertly and shouting apologies. When he broke out the other side, he sprinted straight for Hunk’s car. The front door opened before he even reached it, and Lance threw himself into his seat. 

“Drive, Hunk!  _ Drive! _ ”

The door slammed shut. The car peeled off as quickly as it could, people jumping out of the way. Keith watched it shoot out of the parking lot. 

“Well...” Shiro said after a moment of silence. “That was unexpected.”

Keith grunted wordlessly.

“At least I got a slap in,” Pidge said, out of breath and chest heaving as they came to stand with them once more. 

“Did you at least get his number?” Matt asked, coming to a stop by Pidge and resting an elbow on top of their head. 

His eyes widened, mouth falling open as a whole new chaos of emotions coursed through him. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Disappointment. 

* * *

Keith was pretty sure the employees thought he was crazy. 

He’d seen the same girl at the ticket counter three times this week and four last week. He’d seen the same guy nearly every day. They had started printing his ticket before he even got the chance to ask. 

He tired not to make eye contact with them, but he knew they gave him a weird look every time. 

He didn’t buy snacks. His wallet was already suffering from buying a fucking ticket for Harry Potter every day for two weeks, he didn’t need to make it worse with overpriced popcorn. He had, however, started sneaking in candy and bottled drinks. 

As he stepped into the theater, he glanced around. It wasn’t as full as it was opening night, and not as full because it was nearly three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Not exactly a prime movie slot. 

He sighed, trudging up the stairs to a middle row, taking his seat and sinking into it. It was going to be a bust. It was  _ always _ a bust. This was getting him nowhere. He needed a new game plan, but he wasn’t sure where to go from here. He knew  _ nothing _ about his soulmate other than the fact that he liked Harry Potter and he lived close enough to see it at this theater. 

He wasn’t sure how many more times he could afford coming to see this movie. 

“Hey!” 

Keith blinked, turning to look down toward the front of the theater, but the only ones that were walking up the steps was a small group of girls. 

“Hey!” 

Why was that voice so familiar. It nibbled at the edges of his memory, insistent and compelling and—

Legs appear in his peripheral vision, and he turns to see someone climbing down over his row, landing with an  _ oomf _ and stumbling for a moment before throwing themselves into the seat next to him. 

He blinked, suddenly faced with a sharp angular face, messy chestnut hair, light brown skin, and dazzlingly blue eyes. 

“Oh my god, I was  _ right _ . It  _ is _ you.” His face softened then, head tilting just a fraction to the side, eyes lidding just a little as his lips tugged up into a small smile. “It’s really you.”

Him. It was  _ him _ .

“You’re the one,” he found himself saying, words slipping out from between his lips in a breathless rush, feeling his lungs constrict. 

Something sparkled in Lance’s eyes, smile curling into something a fraction brighter. “Yeah, that’s more like what I was hoping for,” he said, a breathless chuckled tacked onto the edge of his words. 

Keith didn’t know what to say. Didn’t quite trust his own voice. His throat felt thick. Mouth felt dry. His stomach was twisting and rolling. Chest fluttering. So he just stared. Eyes flickering over Lance’s face, trying to take everything in. 

Lance recovered faster. Soft vulnerability leaking out of him. Replaced by a more casual confidence. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t find you here.”

And because Keith had never really had much of a filter, and the idea of him  _ not _ being around the theater at this point was ridiculous, he opened his mouth and said, “This is my fourteenth time seeing this movie.”

Before he had a chance to feel even remotely embarrassed by that statement, Lance grinned. Wide and blinding. Eyes crinkling at the corners. He was beautiful. Keith considered forgiving the universe for giving him a shitty soulmark. 

“I’m on fifteen.”

Keith blinked. “It’s only been fourteen days.”

Lance chuckled, turning his head to the side, eyes moving to the large theater screen as an ad played. He scratched the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah, well... I was really excited and might have gone twice the day after we met.”

Keith felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Felt it and was unable to fight it. “Yet you still managed to miss me.”

Lance’s eyes drifted back toward him, lips quirking to match Keith’s small smirk. “The universe can be a dick.”

At that, Keith couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed louder than he expected to. Laughed until his eyes crinkled and his stomach hurt. He forced it down to chuckles, putting a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. He wasn’t even sure  _ why _ he was laughing. He chalked it up to relief. Giddy, unparalleled relief. 

“Tell me about it,” he finally managed to say, smile hidden behind a hand. 

Lance was grinning. Bright. Alluring. He put an elbow on the arm rest between them. Leaned forward a little. Tipped his chin downward. Eyes still on Keith. “Name’s Lance.” 

“Keith.”

“Keith...” Lance said his name like he was tasting it on his tongue, trailing off, eyes going distant. His smile softened. Keith liked how his name sounded when Lance said it. “So, Keith,” Lance’s eyes focused in on him again, smile quirking, voice rising playfully. “Gonna tell me why your friends tried to beat me up in a parking lot two weeks ago?”

Keith snorted, huffing a short laugh, rolling his eyes. Instead of explaining, he peeled off a glove and held his right hand out, palm open. 

Lance leaned forward, taking his hand lightly between his own. His smile faded in his concentration, lips going lax, parting slightly. He turned Keith’s hand toward the screen, leaning the light against Keith’s skin. 

His touch was warm. Fingers soft and grip delicate. As if Keith was something precious. As if he was just as awed by Keith’s touch as Keith was by his. 

Then Lance was laughing, head thrown back and grin wide. “Oh my god, are you  _ serious?” _

He let go of Keith’s hand, and he tried not to be disappointed at the loss. He pulled his hand back, slipping his glove back on. With a smile like that and a laugh that made butterflies flutter in his chest, Keith couldn’t really bring himself to be mad about his soulmark anymore. “You spoiled book six for me before book one was even written.”

He never imagined he’d be smiling as he said it, but he was. 

“Oh  _ man _ , that must’ve been so weird before the books came out.”

“You have no idea.”

“No, but I’d like to.” Lance leaned in, elbows on the arm rest, turned so his knees pressed lightly against Keith’s leg. His voice dropped, a shiver ran down Keith’s spine. “I wanna hear all about it sometime.”

Keith crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head back against the seat, still turned to face him. He felt a smirk tug at his lips. “You have to make it up to me, too. You ruined Harry Potter for me.”

Lance chuckled, tilting his chin up just a fraction, eyes drifting over Keith’s face, focusing for just a moment on his lips before his gaze returns to Keith’s. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

He felt his chest squeeze, heart painful as it hammered against his ribs. His stomach twisted, gut tying itself in knots. His palms felt sweaty, skin over-sensitive, mouth dry. He was far too aware of it as he licked his lips. Especially when Lance’s gaze dropped. 

Then the lights dimmed and the trailers started, forcing the two of them to lean back in their seats, facing forward, turned away from each other. 

Keith barely paid attention. He had seen the trailers far too many times already, and he was far, far too aware of the boy next to him. 

As the title faded onto the screen, Lance leaned over, shoulder pressing into Keith’s, voice hushed and close, breath caressing his cheek. “I bet I can recite more lines than you.”

Keith glanced at him, tilting his head just a fraction, a smirk tugging at his lips. Lance was close. Too close. Not close enough. “You’re on.”

The spent the first fifteen minutes leaning close, shoulders pressed together, sharing the armrest, whispering lines back and forth. 

Twenty minutes in, their pinkies were intertwined, and Keith didn’t remember who did it first. 

Thirty minutes in, Lance’s forehead was pressed against his temple as he laughed under his breath, and when Keith turned to look at him, their noses brushed. 

Forty minutes in, Lance kissed him. He missed, catching Keith right as he turned back toward the screen, hitting mostly cheek and the corner of his mouth. Keith turned back as Lance pulled away, surging forward to properly catch his lips. 

It lasted a second, barely a brush of lips, but it Keith was pretty sure it was the best second of his life. 

Fifty minutes in, neither of them were paying attention to the movie anymore. Slouched in their seats. Arm rest pushed up and removed. Lance’s arm around Keith’s shoulders Keith leaned into his side. Shy touches and tentative fingers intertwining. Kisses exchanged in the dark of the theater. 

When Dumbledore’s death scene rolled around, Lance leaned in, pressing his lips to Keith’s ear and whispering, “Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died.”

He laughed as Keith pushed him out of his seat. 

Keith found himself smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media! I'm most active on twitter. 
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	8. You've Got Me Like Space Pox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - canon divergence - sickness - pining - sick fic - comfort - 7,768 words
> 
> _Keith hasn’t been around much since joining the Blade of Marmora, and maybe that’s why Lance finds himself constantly watching, eyes drawn inexplicably to the friend he never gets to see anymore. The friend he desperately misses but hates to admit it._
> 
> _On a joint mission with the Blade of Marmora, Lance notices something is wrong. When Keith collapses in the middle of a fight, Lance is the first at his side. And when it turns out that Keith is sick with some sort of galra virus and has to stay on the castle ship for a while, Lance is the one who volunteers to take care of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime loosely during season 3/4 ?? I think?? It's been a while, my dudes

Lance isn’t really sure where the habit came from, or when it started, but thinking back on it, he realizes that he’s kind of always had a tendency to stare. 

He’s an observer. It’s always been this way. Watching others. Recognizing mood swings. Realizing tension. Noting when conversations and attitudes shift. Watching his siblings. His family. Learning to adapt and change and shift depending on the mood present. Learning to notice people so he could better adapt to being with them. To being liked. To being noticed. To be welcomed. 

He’s not sure when he started watching Keith in particular, but coincidence became curiosity. Curiosity became habit. 

He knows when he started, his staring wasn’t innocent, nor was it friendly. Eyes locked on the back of Keith’s head in class, catching glimpses of his profile in the halls, glaring at him from across the mess hall, watching the furrow of his brows on the observational screen as he flew the simulators, his stomach twisted with something dark and sour, bitter acid on his tongue, fire in his chest. 

Twisted. Corrupting. Eating away at his insides. Polluting his thoughts. 

Jealousy. Anger. Irritation. Longing. To be him. To be in his shoes. To be his equal. 

Then Keith was gone, and there was a hole in his chest that he didn’t like to think about. And when Keith came back, when they were whisked off to space, when they became teammates, that hole filled once again with a fire, but…

Something had changed. 

He still stared. Habit became instinct. Instinct became compulsion. 

His feelings were still there, but it was no longer a darkness blackening his chest. Rather shadows, creeping at the edges of his mind, often and easily ignored. Because he  _ was _ Keith’s equal, and Keith’s glares often softened, causing a fluttering in Lance’s stomach and a squeeze in his chest. 

Then Shiro disappeared, Keith was poised to fall, standing on shaking ground that threatened to crumble. And Lance was there. To hold him up. To hold his hand. A guiding push and a force at his back. 

He still stared.

But something had changed. 

Compulsion because insight. Insight became understanding. Understanding became compassion. 

Then Keith left. Again. And that hole in his chest opened wide. Again. 

He didn’t have time to focus on it. Pushed it aside like he had before. There were plenty of things to keep him busy. Fighting an intergalactic war will do that. He got through it, until the hole’s edges were softened and buffered, less sharp and aching. 

He doesn’t see Keith as often anymore, but when he does, he finds that he still stares. Finds his eyes returning to him constantly, again and again. Always aware of where he is, even before he realizes it. And curiously, all of those dark thoughts seem to be gone. He feels a whole new barrage of things when he stares at Keith these days, and it’s something he doesn’t like to think too hard about. 

Because something has definitely changed. 

So given his habit of staring, of noticing all the small changes in Keith’s expression and body language, Lance finds he can read him pretty easily. It’s been a skill long in the making, and he doesn’t realize just how well he can read Keith until he notices that something is definitely wrong.

He sees it in the way his posture sags just slightly. He can see it in the bags under his eyes and the strange glassy quality to his gaze when he lowers his mask. He can see it in the lines that mar his forehead and stand out at the corner of his pursed lips. He can see it in the way he avoids eye contact, the way his gaze unfocuses for brief moments. He can see the slight waver to his movements, to his balance. He can see the slight sheen of sweat, even when he’s just standing still. 

Lance wants to ask what’s wrong, but he knows by the way Keith squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, nodding sharply when given his orders, that he won’t say anything besides insisting that he’s fine. 

But Lance knows he’s not fine. 

And given that Lance knows he’s not fine, he finds himself watching Keith more closely than ever. 

They’re on a mission with the Blade. Infiltration. Lions landed a ways away, paladins and blades moving in, side by side. Fighting in tandem. Lance watches from afar, fixed up on a perch, bayard in its sniper rifle form, eye to the scope. He keeps a watchful eye over the skirmish below, but his gaze lingers on Keith. 

Truth be told, he likes watching Keith fight. He’s fluid and dynamic, with just enough power behind his movements and just enough control. He’s graceful. He’s dangerous. He’s a fire on the battlefield that can’t be contained, swift and destructive. 

Just like the old days, Lance finds himself keeping a close eye on him. He has a tendency to dive headlong into the fray, and Lance has a tendency to keep enemies out of his blind spots. A team. Working together. No words passing between them because they don’t need them. 

After the first shot downs a sentry at his back, Keith glances up at him, eyes easily finding Lance’s perch even though he’s pretty sure Keith never saw him climb up to it. Maybe he’s just as spatially aware of Lance as Lance is of him. 

Lance can’t see him smile behind his mask, but he feels it in the air between them.

And then he’s diving back into the fray, and Lance is watching his back. 

It’s no real surprise when he’s the first to see Keith falter. He sees the stutter in his step, the way his limbs seem to go heavy as he barely manages to dodge a blade. Lance takes the shot without thinking, giving Keith a moment to breathe. 

He doesn’t recover. He falls to a knee, hand to his head, chest heaving unnaturally. 

Lance is already moving. He thinks he shouts Keith’s name, but it’s hard to hear over the sound of battle and the ringing in his ears. He slides down from his perch, feet scrambling for traction as he hits the ground. Then he’s running, bayard already back into rifle form. He shoots as he runs, weaving through the battle, an unstoppable current, until he’s at Keith’s side. 

Keith tries to protest as Lance heaves him into his arms, but he’s not in a very good state to. His breathing is ragged, face flushed, a thin sheen of sweat broken out over his skin when the mask falls away. His eyes are distant, barely able to remain open. 

Lance’s heart squeezes, but now isn’t the time to hesitate. He shouts at the others, and they cover him as he carries Keith out of there. He’s heavy, but Lance manages through pure strength of will and adrenaline. 

He makes it back to Red and throws himself into his seat, Keith settling into his lap as he reaches forward for the controls. Red’s concern rumbles at the back of his mind, soft and dangerous, fueling Lance as he sets his jaw, eyes hard as he pushes Red back toward the castle ship as fast as she can go. 

* * *

“Strange,” Coran says, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he looks over the scanner’s readings. Keith lays on one of the beds in the medbay, mask and hood down, eyes squeezed shut and breathing erratic. 

“What does  _ that _ mean?” Lance snaps. He hadn’t meant to. When Coran looks at him, however, there’s no sign of irritation or annoyance. Instead just warm understanding and sympathy. Lance looks away, frowning as his gaze lands on Keith.

“It means that the castle’s database isn’t familiar with whatever is plaguing Keith. It can tell he’s ill, just not with what.”

“So it’s some crazy space disease?” Lance asks, worry straining his voice. 

The door slides open, and his head snaps up. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s stepped between Keith and the two Blades who step into the room. It’s ridiculous, and he forces himself to relax. The battle’s still going on. He can hear his teammate’s voices thin and muted, coming from the helmet he has clutched under one arm. 

The two masked Blades slow as they enter the room, but they’re both breathing hard. “What happened?” And while his mask remains in place, his stature and voice are easy to place, Kolivan. 

“I’m afraid we don’t know,” Coran says, brows pinching as he looks back down to the scanner in his hand. 

Kolivan reaches up to his neck, mask disappearing as he pulls back his hood. He takes a few steps forward, and Lance watches his face. He sees the moment something akin to recognition passes over his eyes. He sees the way his body freezes, hand shooting out to stop his fellow Blade from advancing. 

They both take cautious steps back, and Lance is already chasing after them. 

“What is it?” He demands, voice rising, straining. He glares, head tilted back, refusing to break eye contact with the startled man. “What’s wrong with Keith.”

“Lance—“ Coran starts, but he cuts him off, pointing an accusing finger at Kolivan.

“He knows.”

The man shifts his weight, eyes dropping and head turning slightly to the side. “I do. And I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for him.”

“Please explain,” Coran says, all calm and reasonable.

Lance can barely hear past the ringing in his ears, can barely breathe past the tightening in his chest. 

Kolivan holds up a hand in a placating gesture. “It is nothing serious. Or at least, it should not be for him. For us, however...” He shakes his head. “See the blotches forming on his skin?” Lance turns, eyes zeroing in on what he can see of Keith’s face and neck, eyes lingering on the rashes that have started to appear. Small, mottled spots of dark red and purple. “It is a common illness among the galra. Common and simple for the young. It passes easily with minor discomfort, and once it’s gone, the body is immune to contracting it again. However, as an a fully grown galra, it can have much more severe ramifications.”

Lance blinks, understanding clicking into place. “Like the chicken pox?” Three pairs of eyes turn to him with varying levels of confusion. He sends them a weak smile, waving a hand. “Uh, never mind.”

Kolivan’s eyes linger on him for a only a moment before turning to Coran. “Nevertheless, while he should be fine in a movement’s time, we cannot risk bringing him back with us. It’s a highly contagious disease, and we do not know who was exposed in their childhood.”

Coran nods, lines on his face relaxing enough to let him smile. He reaches out, putting a protective hand on Keith’s shoulder. “We understand. We’ll take care of him here.”

“Thank you,” is all Kolivan says before his hood and mask are back in place, both Blades hurrying out of the room, an extra beat of urgency in their steps. 

Later, Lance realizes that he probably should have returned to the battle. But as it turns out, they managed just fine without him. For which, he’s glad. He doesn’t think he would have been able to convince his feet to take him out of the medbay anyway. 

He doesn’t want to think about what’s changed.

* * *

He’s all for shoving Keith into a healing pod and kicking this galra space pox right out of his system. 

Coran, however, has to go all  _ reasonable _ and conclude that it’s probably a good idea to just let the disease run its course, so then at least Keith will be immune to it in the future when it could be far more deadly. 

Lance  _ supposes _ that’s good logic, but fuck does he hate seeing Keith like this: delirious, body covered in sweat, eyes bloodshot, dark purple rashes breaking out over his skin, limbs twitching as his muscles contract and spasm. 

They finally compromise: just a few ticks in the pod to take the edge off, then straight to bed to wait out the rest of it. 

He hadn’t meant to be there when Keith woke up. He hadn’t meant to linger even after Coran hurries out to check in with the rest of the team. But it had felt wrong to leave Keith alone, even if he was unconscious in the pod. So he had stayed. He had waited, lost in thought about everything but nothing at all, refusing to let any of his swirling thoughts fully stick. 

He hadn’t intended to be the one to catch Keith as he falls out of the pod, but he is. 

He’s there, on his feet, arms out and stepping forward as Keith stumbles out. He lands heavily in Lance’s arms, body limp and limbs leaden. Lance stumbles a step, but braces himself, arms going around Keith to hold him up. 

Out of reflex more than anything, he starts rubbing circles into Keith’s back. “It’s okay, buddy,” he murmurs, voice pitched low and soothing. “I’ve gotcha.”

Keith comes to himself slowly, rousing from the deep slumber of the healing pod made worse by the illness running rampant in his system. Lance knows the moment he realizes what’s happening because he freezes, entire body going stiff and breath hitching audibly in his throat. 

Hands gripped a fraction too tight on Lance’s biceps, he straightens, pulling away, head still bowed and hair falling to hide his face. His balance wavers, and Lance is still there, grip around his waist firm enough to keep him from falling. Keith looks at him then, lifting his chin until Lance can see those gorgeous dark eyes, whites bloodshot and bags hanging heavily beneath. His brow is furrowed, lips pursed. 

“Lance?” He finally asks, voice hoarse and throat dry, causing his name to crack on his tongue. 

Lance offers him a small smile, just a bare quirk of his lips. “Hey, man. Glad to see you awake.”

Eyes dart around as he moves his weight back, putting another inch or two between them. His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go of Lance’s arms. “What happened?”

“You passed out mid-fight, dude.” Keith’s eyes snap to his, back straightening. Lance’s grip on him tightens for just a moment in a gesture he hopes is comforting. His smile turns lopsided as he tilts his head. “No worries, I had your back.” Something shifts behind Keith’s eyes, minute changes in his expression. And for once, Lance can’t read it. 

Or maybe he can, if the shifting warmth pooling in his chest is anything to go by.

No matter. 

He straightens just a fraction, pulling his shoulders back as he clears his throat. “Anyway, uh... Kolivan says you have like...” His brow furrows, lips pursing into a small frown. “Actually, he didn’t say what you have exactly, but it’s like... galra chicken pox?”

The lift of Keith’s brow is slow. “Galra... chicken pox?” 

Lance shrugs, lifting a hand from Keith to wave it around aimlessly. “Basically. Something like a mild rashy flu when you’re young, but it gets dangerous when you’re older? But once you have it, you’re immune to it. So we decided it’s probably best if we let it run its course. But Kolivan isn’t sure who in the Blade has had it or not, soooo... you’re castle bound until you’re better.” He flashes a smirk that borders on a grin. “So welcome home, samurai.”

Keith exhales sharply, somewhere between a huff and a snort, and looks away. Lance knows he’s aiming for nonchalance, but there’s something there that makes his heart ache. “Great,” he mumbles, pulling away from Lance’s grip. He hates to let go, but he doesn’t seem in immediate danger of falling. 

The silence between them is far too thick, far too tense. Lance doesn’t like it. It feels like two steps back from where they had been. So he reaches out again, laying a hand on the back of Keith’s shoulder, intent on guiding him toward the door. “Let’s get you to your room so you can rest.” 

He doesn’t know anything about galra chicken pox, but Keith looks exhausted, and sleep always does a sick body good.

Keith shrugs off his hand, straightening as he sends Lance a glare that’s far too weak and without any real heat. “I don’t need help walking, Lance.” His words don’t sound clipped or sharp. Just exhausted and heavy.

Lance pulls back his hand, holding both up in full view. “Alright, alright, I just thought— you look a little wobbly there— and I know coming out of that pod isn’t exactly—“

“I’m fine,” Keith grits out, already heading for the door. 

He only gets a couple steps before he’s stumbling, pitching forward as his legs don’t work like they should. He manages to catch himself, but he puts a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his other arm out. 

Lance is there in a second, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling one of his arms over his shoulders. 

Keith turns to him, opening his eyes into a weak glare, lips pursed into what can only be a pout. He looks like he wants to fight it, but defeat is already making his shoulders slump, weight leaning into Lance. “Not a word.”

Lance just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners with it. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

He was. He totally was. But Keith isn’t feeling to great, so he’ll give him a break. This time. 

When they get to Keith’s room, he shrugs out of Lance’s grip, hand to the frame of his door to hold himself up. Lance hovers in the open doorway, weight shifting and hands fidgeting. His eyes glance everywhere, from the odd emptiness of Keith’s room, the the hallway he stands in, to the boots of his suit as he idly scuffs his toe against the metal of the floor. 

He wants to stay. To make sure Keith is alright. To make sure he has everything he needs. It’s the right thing to do. He’d do it for anyone. Growing up with siblings and nieces and nephews has drilled it into instinct. Take care of those who can’t take care of themselves. 

But before he can say anything, Keith is stepping into his room, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Thanks, Lance,” he says softly. 

There’s a storm in his eyes. A storm that makes Lance’s stomach sink even as it makes his pulse race. 

But then the door is sliding shut, and Lance is alone in the hallway.

For just a moment, he had hoped that maybe something had changed. 

* * *

Despite the fact that every damn nerve in his body is hyper aware of the fact that Keith is, once again, on the ship. And despite the fact that his awareness zeros in on any and every sound or sight of him. And despite the fact that the twisting, writhing worry in his gut is telling him to check up on Keith damn near constantly, Lance manages to resist the urge to hover. 

As it turns out, he’s not the only one feeling the need to do so.

Once the team is made aware of the situation, everyone seems fidgety, a permanent crease in their brows, the words  _ “Maybe we should check up on Keith? _ ” and “ _ Do you think he needs anything? _ ” muttered between them. 

But Keith makes it very clear that he doesn’t want to be babied. He doesn’t want their worry or their care. He makes this clear by glaring at anyone who dares give him a look of pity, and stubbornly moving about the caste like he doesn’t look like a dead man walking. 

The only person he allows into his room is Shiro, and it’s never for long. Shiro always returns to them with a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. 

Keith will be Keith, and there’s not much they can do about that. 

Lance knows just as well as anyone that pushing the matter with just make Keith pull back more, make him angrier, and Lance... really doesn’t want that anger directed at him. 

So he keeps from hovering, but that leads to other complications. Like the constant bounce of his foot when he’s forced to be still. The fidget of his fingers, restless and nervous. The heightened senses that make him feel like he’s hyper aware of every damn sound in the ship. And, most annoyingly, an inability to sleep. 

So that’s how he finds himself in the kitchen, padding through the doors mid-yawn, intent on getting a quick snack to quell his rumbling stomach, only to find Keith collapsed on the floor. 

“Whoa, whoa, dude!” He snaps awake, eyes wide as he hurries across the room, nearly tripping on his own slippers. “Keith, buddy, my man, you okay?” He says, dropping to his knees next to Keith. 

He’s slumped against one of the kitchen cabinets, legs sprawled out in front of him, arms limp at his sides. He slouches low, neck at an odd angle and head lolling forward. 

Lance reaches out, fingers gently touching Keith’s cheeks, his jaw. He rouses, head lifting and eyes blinking blearily. His eyelids look heavy, bags under his eyes dark. The visible skin on his face, neck, and arms is paler than normal, spotted with small, misshapen blotches that range from violet to dark, reddish purple. They look almost like bruises, and it makes Lance’s stomach roll. 

“Lance?” Keith’s voice is raspy and hoarse, sounds slurring like he doesn’t really have control over his tongue. 

Lance frowns, lifting a hand to press it gently against his forehead. His skin is clammy and sticky. “Hey, buddy, don’t worry, I’m here.” 

Keith’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “‘M not worried.” He leans into Lance’s touch, a soft hum vibrating from his throat. “Your hand is cold.”

“Probably because you’re burning up,” Lance says, pulling his hands back. Keith’s eyes flicker open, looking for all the world like it takes far too much energy to do so. Lance fixes him with a stern stare. “What’re you doing here, dude? You should be in bed.”

Keith looks at him for a moment longer, blinking slowly. Then he looks away, eyes dropping to the floor as his lips purse into a small pout. He licks his cracked lips. “Was thirsty,” he mumbles. “Hungry.”

Lance’s frown deepens. “You weren’t at dinner.” It’s not a question, but Keith winces, shoulders hunching a little in shame. Lance’s eyes narrow. “Have you eaten  _ anything _ today?”

“I had breakfast...”

“ _ Keith _ ,” he sighs, closing his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You have to  _ eat _ if you want your body to heal.”

“I know...” Comes the grumble, but he has the decency to sound abashed. 

Lance sighs again, pushing himself to his feet. He had been resigned to letting Keith do his own thing, taking his venomous attempts to push people away to heart. 

But you know what?

Fuck that. 

“Alright, up you go.” Keith just stares at him blankly, blinking slowly, lips parted slightly and brow pinched in surprise. Lance rolls his eyes, reaching down. “I said  _ up _ , Marmora boy.” 

“What’re you doing?” He asks, sounding suspicious and cautious, but takes Lance’s hand anyway. 

“What does it look like? I’m  _ helping _ you.” Pulling him to his feet proves to be a bigger struggle than Lance anticipated. Keith is weak, far weaker than it seems like he wants to admit, if the flush on his cheeks is anything to go by. By the time they get him to his feet, his breathing is labored and ragged.

“I don’t need help.”

Lance snorts. “Well too bad, you’re getting it. Now come on.” He maneuvers Keith around the kitchen island, settling him in a chair that he had dragged in here to sit in while keeping Hunk company. Keith collapses more than sits, but Lance decides not to comment. He already looks more relieved to be sitting again, but his expression is cautious as he watches Lance move around the kitchen. 

“What now?” He asks slowly, exhaustion hanging on his words. If those bags under his eyes are anything to go by, he hasn’t been sleeping well either.

Lance shrugs with one shoulder, already rifling through their food stores. “Now I’m gonna put together the best midnight snack you’ve ever had, and you’re gonna sit right there and keep me company. Then you’re going straight to bed.”

“Bossy.” There’s a strange edge to his voice, and when Lance glances over his shoulder, he can see the small smirk hovering on Keith’s lips. 

He grins, pointing a spatula at him. “Damn right. Now how’d you feel about space pancakes?”

A quirked brow. “In the middle of the night?”

A raised brow in return. “Is there any better time?”

“You’re so weird.”

A shrug. “Love it or leave it, mullet.”

Keith is a quiet companion, but Lance doesn’t mind. He dozes in the seat, occasionally sipping from the water pouch Lance put in front of him, leaning his head against folded arms on the counter. Lance hums to himself, singing under his breath as he does his best to emulate Hunk’s improvised pancake recipe. He hadn’t intended to go all out like this, but Keith hadn’t had dinner... 

And the soft, grateful smile he gets when he slides a stacked plate in front of him is totally worth the effort. 

* * *

The next day, Lance makes Keith shower. 

It’s a far longer process than anticipated. Keith insists that he doesn’t need to, and Lance stands his ground firmly, refusing to let him leave his room until he agrees. It’s a battle of wills, and luckily, Keith is far too exhausted and drained to fight for long, and Lance has a history intimidating sick family members into doing what they should. 

“You don’t need to come with me,” Keith grumbles as they trudge through the hallways, arms crossed over his chest and shoulders slumped. His eyes remain fixed on the floor. 

Lance just shrugs, hands in his pockets. “I don’t trust you not to run off the second I turn my back.” He turns, flashing Keith a grin when he finds him sheepishly looking away. “That’s exactly what you were gonna do, isn’t it?”

“No...”

“Keith.”

“I don’t  _ need _ a shower.”

“You do, dude. You’re gross.”

Keith scowls. “I’m just going to end up just like this by the end of the day.” He doesn’t sound too happy about that little bit of his illness. 

Lance shrugs. “But it’ll make you feel better now. Hygiene is important, dude.”

“Whatever.”

Lance waits outside the door to the shared bathroom. He could go inside, but he decides to give Keith some semblance of privacy. So he fixes Keith with a stern stare and a threatening finger, and Keith just rolls his eyes before disappearing into the room. Lance waits in the hallway, leaning against the wall with one hand in his pocket, other idly flickering through his phone. 

Beyond the door, he can hear when the water from one of the showers starts up, and a small smile graces his lips. Keith takes his time, which seems a little strange for him, but Lance doesn’t mind waiting. 

Then he hears a clattering of bottles to the floor, and the distinct sound of a body hitting the tiles, followed immediately by a grunt and groan. 

He doesn’t call out for Lance, but he doesn’t need to. Lance is through the doors in a moment, phone shoved back in his pocket. He hurries to the stall with water pooling beneath it. 

“Keith?”

No answer. 

“ _ Keith? _ ”

A soft groan. 

Setting his jaw and trying to regulate his breathing, he pushes back the doors to the stall. Keith is on the floor, body collapsed and sprawled beneath the spray. He’s half propped up against the wall, like he had tried to stand and had given up. Lance keeps his eyes fixed on his face as he assesses the situation. His brows are furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, expression twisted and lips parted as he pants. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the rest of Keith’s body. Just as covered with those odd mottled purple splotches as his arms. 

He gulps, tearing his eyes away. Steam. There’s a lot of steam in here. The water obviously far too hot. 

“Goddammit, Keith,” he mumbles, reaching for the towel Keith had perched on the rack outside the stall. He does his best to skirt around the spray of water to turn it off. Once that’s done, he crouches low, wrapping the towel around Keith and breathing a sigh of relief through his nose as he does so. 

It’s not that he doesn’t  _ like _ what he sees, it’s just— yeah, not the time.

He wraps up Keith as best he can and heaves the boy into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Keith leans against him, wet hair plastered to his face and neck, soaking through the shoulder of Lance’s shirt. He doesn’t mind.

Dead weight, Keith is heavier than he anticipated, but he makes do. He stumbles as he adjusts, nearly slipping on the floor and having to press his shoulder to the wall to keep balance. Once he’s adjusted, he pushes off, carrying Keith back to his room. 

Keith’s eyes flutter open shortly after they leave the steamy air of the bathroom behind, chest breathing in the crisp clean air in big gulps. He doesn’t say anything, but his body shifts, curling slightly more in on himself, more into Lance’s chest. His head shifts to further tuck his head beneath Lance’s chin and therefore his view, hair falling to veil in his face. 

Lance smiles, allowing himself just a moment to enjoy the feeling of Keith in his arms. 

“Did you at least manage to get clean before you passed out?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

“And where’d you think you’re going?” Lance drawls, arms crossed over his robe, hip cocked out to the side, one of his lion slippers tapping silently on the floor. 

Keith stiffens, shoulders rising his his ears. He turns slowly, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. When he meets Lance’s disapproving stare, his lips purse. He lifts himself a little, raising his chin, defiance sparking in his eyes. “I’m just going to—“

“To train?”

“... No?”

Lance raises an eyebrow, nice and slow. “No?”

“Yes?”

“So that’s why you’re standing outside the doors to the training deck with your knife strapped to your back?”

“I always keep my knife on me.”

“Even when you sleep?”

“Yes,” he says it like it’s obvious.

Lance’s brows raise in genuine surprise. “And you call me weird.” Keith just shrugs. Lance sighs. “Alright, nope. No. No way. You’re not training right now.” 

Keith’s face falls into a scowl. “But—“

“Nope.”

“I can’t sleep—“

“To bad. Back to bed.” Lance steps up to him, putting himself between Keith and the training room door. He makes shooing motions with his hands, knuckles pumping and fluttering against Keith until he takes a step back. 

“You can’t tell me what to do, Lance.”

Lance scoffs. “You’re obviously not gonna take care of yourself, so I’ve gotta do it for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“You didn’t need to.”

At that, Keith blinks, and Lance can see his surprise soften into something else. Something that has shivers running down his spine. Finally, Keith huffs, turning on his heel, shoulders slumping with defeat. “Fine.”

They walk back to their rooms together in companionable silence. They stop outside Keith’s door, Lance staring at him pointedly. He refuses to budge until he sees Keith go inside. Keith, however, just stares at it, expression sagging in exhaustion and resignation. 

“I wasn’t lying when I said I can’t sleep,” he says softly, lips barely moving.

“I know.” Keith sends him a curious look, and Lance shrugs. “The bags under your eyes speak for themselves.”

Keith sighs, and Lance hates seeing him like this. Hates seeing him so miserable and defeated, without that spark that he knows and loves. It’s a vulnerability that he’s not used to seeing from Keith, and it kicks his instincts to  _ protect _ into high gear. 

“Maybe I can help.” The offer is out in the open before he has a chance to really think it through. Keith gives him a curious look, one eyebrow raised, but then just shrugs, stepping forward as his door opens and disappearing into the room. 

After a brief moment of hesitation, in which Lance has to mentally slap himself, steeling his core and his heart, trying to make his pulse slow the fuck down and his breathing regulate, he follows after him. 

Keith collapses onto the bed without much preamble, leaving Lance standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. But Keith doesn’t look awkward. Or nervous. Or hesitant. He just looks tired and desperate, and that pushes Lance into action.

He forces Keith to scoot over, sitting on the bed with his back to the wall and legs stretched out. “Come on,” He says, patting his thighs. Keith gives him a blank stare, lips pursing slowly and brows furrowing. Lance sighs, rolling his eyes as he pats his thighs again. “Just trust me, alright? Put your head in my lap.”

He’s hesitant, biting at his bottom lip and eyes darting around the room. But there’s something in his expression, an eagerness and willingness that he can’t quite hide behind his hesitancy. Finally, he scoots over, tentatively lying his head on Lance’s thigh. 

Lance wastes no time letting his fingers dive into Keith’s hair, stroking through it, gently detangling the silken strands. He brushes the hair from his face, letting fingers card through it in long, consistent movements. A sigh leaves Keith’s lips, eyes fluttering closed as his whole body seems to sink into the bed, tension leaking out of him all at once. He hums in his throat, and Lance can feel it against his leg. 

A small smile curves his lips as his other hand moves to Keith’s back, rubbing gentle and constant circles into his back. 

And then he sings. Softly and under his breath. Soft songs in Spanish and English. The songs he used to sing to his nieces and nephews when they curled up in his bed after a nightmare, or curled in his lap when they couldn’t sleep. 

He keeps his movements consistent and gentle, singing until his lips and throat felt dry. Until Keith’s breathing evens out and his body slumps further as he sleeps.

And then he keeps going, because he doesn’t know when Keith will let him touch him like this again, and he has the absurd urge to make it last as long as he can, until sleep tugs at his own eyes and his hand stills, fingers still tangled in Keith’s hair.

* * *

Things go surprisingly smoothly after that. 

Lance shifts easily into the role of caregiver, and Keith stops fighting him so much. That isn’t to say he stops completely, but he gives in a lot quicker. He still doesn’t like the looks the others give him, and doesn’t react well when they try to take care of him, but he’s given up on fighting Lance’s hand in things. 

He ends up spending a lot of time with Keith because of it. He needs a lot of sleep, and he refuses to do so unless Lance is there. So every morning, after insisting that Keith take a shower and escorting him to the kitchen to make sure he eats properly, Lance walks him back to his room, hovering like a hawk and ready to catch him should he fall again. 

Keith glares at him, bites out weak protests, but Lance can tell he doesn’t mean them. He can read Keith better than that. 

After lulling Keith to sleep, he slips out of the bed and returns to his team. He trains with them. He talks through their plans. He gives his two cents the way he should. But all the while his mind is back in Keith’s room, on the sleeping figure, hoping he’s alright. 

Maybe he’s being paranoid. Maybe he worries too much. But he’s found Keith collapsed far too many times for comfort. 

Whenever he slips away to help Keith, the team gives him odd looks. Ones that range from surprise, to curiosity, to understanding, to pride, to something far more suggestive. He ignores them for the most part, eager to slip away. They let him go. Keith’s made it clear that he doesn’t mind Lance’s help, so they’re not about to pull him away from that. 

He keeps Keith company, and they talk to pass the time. They talk like they haven’t done in months. They talk more than they ever have. Lance talks about what’s been happening while Keith’s been gone. All the behind the scenes things on the castle that doesn’t come across in mission reports. Eventually Keith opens up about his time with the Blade of Marmora, and Lance listens with rapt attention. 

And in the dark hours of the morning, they talk about how they feel about their roles, about what’s been going on, about things that hurt to say in the light of day and that they’re afraid to admit to themselves. 

For the most part, Keith’s illness progresses much like the flu. He has moments where he has trouble keeping his food down, and despite his protests, Lance stands there with him, holding his hair back as he retches. He has fits in his sleep, but Lance is there to help soothe him. His body has moments of getting too hot, and Lance sits by with a cool, wet towel to put on his forehead. When his rashes start itching, Lance slaps his hands away, ignoring the way his chest flutters at the way Keith pouts and the way his stomach flips when he helps rub cooling ointment into Keith’s skin.

From what Lance can tell, Keith hates it. Hates all the attention and hates needing it. He often gets a flush across his cheeks that Lance is sure is from embarrassment instead of the sickness. But he deals with it with little complaint, and he starts leaning into Lance’s touch, seeking it out in a way that makes Lance think that maybe he hates being sick but doesn’t so much hate Lance’s part in it. 

And that... makes something come alive inside him. Something twisting and writhing with a pleasant warmth that Lance has tried for so long to keep stamped down. Something that terrifies him as much as it exhilarates him. A fire he fears feeding, but one he can’t help but keep burning. 

He’s taken to sleeping in Keith’s room. It’s better to keep an eye on him, and more often than not, he’s too tired to leave once he’s sang Keith to sleep. He tried sleeping on the floor, deciding that would be more appropriate and comfortable for Keith. 

But Keith wouldn’t have it. He stared at Lance, hurt in his eyes and a pout on his lips until Lance found himself crawling back up into his bed. 

Keith’s body was overheated, sticky with sweat, and all around uncomfortable to be next to. But that didn’t stop Lance from pulling him in close and letting him curl into his side. 

And although it ends up being a surprisingly pleasant couple of days, Keith doesn’t stay sick forever. 

His symptoms slowly lessen, darker splotches fading to a light violent. The bags under his eyes start to fade, and his eyes look far more alert without the haze of drowsiness and dizziness. They keep their habits and patterns, but it’s clear that Keith is getting better. 

And when he gets better, he’ll have to leave.

Lance fears the hole that he know will open up in his chest when Keith leaves again.

Because something has changed between them.

* * *

When Keith’s door slides open and he walks out, fully dressed in his Blade uniform, he looks startled to find Lance leaning up against the wall next to his room, hands in his pockets and one foot propped up on the wall behind him. 

Lance keeps his head tilted back, eyes on the ceiling, but he hears Keith’s steps falter, and he can see his hesitation out of the corner of his eye. 

He tilts his head to the side, a lazy grin stretching his lips. “You were gonna leave without saying goodbye, weren’t you?”

Keith’s skin is smooth and rash free, and it just makes his light flush that much more noticeable. He looks away, lips pursed. “I was on my way to the bridge to tell everyone.”

And Lance believes him. Can tell he’s telling the truth. But... he’s been watching for so long, he knows all about Keith’s tendency to just disappear. He wanted to make sure he got a goodbye.

Or maybe he just wanted a few more moments alone with him before he leaves. 

He nods his head down the hall, pushing off the wall. “Let’s go then.”

Keith falls into step beside him, and they fall into silence. Silence between them is nothing new. It’s nothing special or shocking. Silence is something they’ve had since the beginning. Lance has never liked it, but it’s always been there. But now... after their days spent together, hearts open in the dark shadows of Keith’s room, he hates the silence even more. 

This silence isn’t companionable, nor is it comfortable. 

It’s awkward and tense, and Keith’s eyes are fixed ahead of them. 

“Everyone will be sad to see you go,” he says, clearing his throat and breaking the silence. Like he always does. Giving Keith a hand into conversations he knows Keith doesn’t like starting on his own. 

The huffing exhale is subtle, but Lance catches it. “Sure.”

Lance looks at him, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight. “They will,” he says firmly. “You’re part of this team, dude. Even if you aren’t flying a lion right now. You’re one of us, and you’re family. And I dunno about you, but I personally prefer when the family’s together.”

Keith’s eyes flicker to him for just a moment before shifting away. The smile that lifts the corner of his lips is small. Barely there. Lifts his cheeks more than it does his mouth. But Lance is used to watching him, and he sees it. “It’s been... nice. Being back here.”

Lance grins, playfully bumping Keith’s shoulder with his own, making the two of them stumble a step. “Even if you were sick off your ass for the entire time?”

Keith’s chuckle is soft and low. “Yeah, even then.” 

They stop outside the door to the bridge, side by side, neither of them making a move to step closer. Lance’s insides twist, nauseating as his pulse races through his veins. His stomach sinks, heart in his throat. He doesn’t want to say goodbye. He doesn’t want things to change. He likes this. He likes what they’ve been building. He doesn’t want Keith to go.

Then Keith sighs, turning to face him, and Lance tilts his head, eyebrow raised as he looks at him. Keith’s eyes are on his, beautiful and dark, spark behind them sending shivers racing through him. His face is set in determination, lips pursed as he lifts his chin. 

Lance’s breath hitches.

“I wanted to say thanks,” he says it like he’s stepping into battle, like he’s spend time building this up. He says it like an attack, an aggressive strike before stepping immediately onto the defense. 

It’s so Keith, that Lance finds the knot in his stomach easing, melting away as his lips pull up into a smile. “It was no problem, man.” He turns to face him fully. “Try not to be a stranger, yeah? I like having you around.”

And the admission comes easier than he thought it would. Like a rush from his lungs. A sigh as something he barely dares to think relaxes out of his chest. It’s not much. It’s not a declaration of anything. But it’s the meaning behind it that makes it powerful. The subtext. All the things left unsaid but linger heavily between the words. 

And judging from the shift in Keith’s expression, the way the lines around his mouth relax. The way his shoulders droop, tension around his eyes smoothing out as his gaze softens, he gets it. He understands.

Maybe... maybe Keith is just as good at reading Lance as Lance is of him. 

And then Keith is stepping forward, hand lifting to grab at the back of Lance’s neck, pulling him forward in a quick movement that’s fluid and surprisingly firm. He meets Lance halfway, pressing warm and chapped lips to the corner of Lance’s mouth. 

He misses. Or maybe it was calculated. A diverting of the intent before he could follow through. Maybe it was just meant to be a tease. 

Lance doesn’t know, and after only a second, Keith is pulling back, stepping away, smile small and eyes bashful, uncertain, nervous, and—

Lance surges forward, hands rising to cup Keith’s face, fingertips diving into his hair as he lifts his chin. He tilts his head, slotting their lips together fully, feeling Keith’s mouth against his in exactly the way he’s been craving. A desire that he’s kept buried for so damn long, scared to let it into the light of day.

Then Keith’s hands are on his forearms, but not to push him away. Rather to hold on, to ground himself. And then Keith is melting under him before pushing forward, pushing into the kiss more firmly, lips sliding deliciously against Lance’s.

Lance breathes him in, tastes him, files it all away and commits it to memory. 

When they pull away, they don’t go far. Close enough that he can still feel Keith’s soft pants against his lips, fanning out across his cheeks. He searches Keith’s eyes, finds things there that reflect the same kind of exhilarating fear that he feels. Sees the excitement, sees the spark, sees a reflection of the fire he feels burning bright in his own chest. 

They don’t say anything, but they don’t need to.

They both feel it. 

Something has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	9. You've Got Me Like Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T - canon divergence - fighting/training - 7,391 words
> 
> _Keith has been gone for a while with the Blade of Marmora, and though he’ll never admit it, he misses the castle ship and team Voltron. So when he gets a message asking him to come back, he jumps at the opportunity._
> 
> _When he arrives, however, he’s surprised to find that it wasn’t Shiro who asked for him to come back, but Lance._
> 
> _Lance has a new bayard form he wants to show him, but he also has some words to say._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime loosely during season 5

When the hatch of Keith’s cruiser opens, there’s only one person waiting for him. He’s fine with that. He’s never really enjoyed making a big deal out of his visits. Thankfully, it’s just the person he had been hoping to see.

“Shiro,” He says it like a sigh. A soft exhale of breath that leaves him in a rush, entire body relaxing with it. 

His smile, however, falters when he sees the confusion written across Shiro’s face. “Keith?” He blinks in surprise as Keith lets his mask fall. “What’re you doing here? Is there something wrong?”

Keith hesitates as his feet touch the floor of the hangar, nearly soundless but far too loud in the ringing silence. His heart leaps in his chest before squeezing tightly. He leaves one hand on the hull of his cruiser, like that might somehow ground him, like it keeps him tethered to his escape. His eyes narrow slightly, brows pinching. 

Shiro stands away from him, not a drastic distance, but one that chills the air between them. His arms are at his sides. Not crossed. Not closed off. Head tilted just a fraction to the side. His body language is open, yet Keith gets the distinct impression that it’s not. Not really. He feels it like an itch beneath his skin. A prickling at the back of his neck. Instincts warning him of something he doesn’t quite understand. Something that doesn’t quite make sense. 

This is Shiro. Out of everyone on this ship, Shiro is the last person his instincts should be going haywire about. Still... this isn’t exactly the welcome he had been hoping for. 

“You...” Keith starts, lips twisting into a confused frown. “Didn’t you call me back?”

Genuine surprise flits across Shiro’s features before they twist up once again with confusion. He looks conflicted and wary. Keith feels his chest tighten, a warning buzz in his veins. He had come back because they had asked for him. He hadn’t questioned it, but... could he have been wrong? Shiro doesn’t look unhappy to see him, but it’s not the warm embrace Keith had been looking forward to. 

His gaze shifts to the side, away from Shiro, looking around the room as if it might hold his answers. But it’s just a hangar, empty save for a few cold and silent pods and Keith’s still-warm cruiser. “I got a message from the ship. A private one.” His gaze flicks back, hoping to see some sort of recognition or remembrance light up Shiro’s face, but if anything, his frown deepens. Keith clears his throat, standing a little straighter, lifting his chin a little higher, crossing his arms over his chest. “It said to come back as soon as I had time, so... here I am.”

“Keith, I—“ Shiro shakes his head, holding his hands out in a defenseless gesture, shoulders shrugging as he takes a step forward. “I’m glad to see you, but we didn’t send you a message.”

“Oh.” He can’t move. For just a moment, breathing is hard. They don’t want him here. He’s imposing on them. They’re busy, and they don’t want him here, and he should be back with the Blade, and of course they don’t want him back here, they’re doing fine without him, they don’t need him—

“Keith! You’re here!” The voice is loud, abrasive, sharp as it cuts through Keith’s spiraling thoughts. But when his head snaps up, gaze fixing on where Lance has entered the hangar, any irritation he feels is melted away by the genuine smile curling the other boy’s lips. 

He stops when he’s next to Shiro, hands shoved in his pockets, posture slouched and relaxed. But his eyes are bright, smile toothy, and it does things to Keith’s insides. His stomach flips, warmth spreading where a chilling numbness had been crawling up his throat only moments before. 

“It’s about time. I was starting to think you hadn’t gotten my message.”

Keith cocks one eyebrow, head tilting as he says, “Your message?”

“Yeah, dude. I sent you a message like, a week ago. I figured you were out on one of your super secret Blade missions or whatever, but a little confirmation or acknowledgement would’ve been nice.”

“Uh... sorry?” Keith blinks, gaze shifting to Shiro, but he looks just as surprised as Keith feels. His eyes are on Lance, brows furrowed and lips pursed. 

“Lance, you contacted Keith? Without telling us?”

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting and falling. “Yeah, I didn’t think it was a super big deal, you know? Just if we were both not busy, maybe he could stop by and give me some pointers on my new bayard form.”

“Oh, I... Okay,” he says it slowly, and doesn’t entirely sound like he means it but also has no reason to refute it. He finally sighs, crossing his arms over his chest as he shakes his head. “Just give us a little heads up, next time you send out messages to the Blade.”

At that, Lance rolls his eyes, a scoff leaving his lips. “It’s not the Blade. It was just Keith.” Shiro looks like he wants to say something, but before he can, Lance is already stepping forward, waving off his concerns. “No problem, though. I’ll let you guys know next time. Now come on, mullet. There’s something I wanna show you.”

Before Keith can protest, or really even process what’s happening, Lance has a hand on his arm and is dragging him across the room quick enough that Keith has to stumble to catch his footing. He casts one last confused frown over his shoulder, but Shiro’s face is blank. Keith gives him a look that he hopes looks like a plea for help, but Shiro just raises his eyebrows and shrugs, giving him a helpless smile.

Then Keith is pulled out into the hallway and around the corner. 

He sighs, tugging his arm out of Lance’s grip. “You don’t need to drag me,” he grumbles when Lance glances back at him, one eyebrow raised.

He hesitates for only a moment before he shrugs, lifting his hands to link his fingers behind his head, turning to keep walking down the hall. “Suit yourself.”

Keith feels his lips twist into a small frown as he walks faster to fall into pace with him. “Where are we going anyway?”

“The training deck. I wasn’t lying. I want to show you my new bayard form, but I also want to catch up. It’s been a while, you know?”

That... isn’t what he’s expecting. He feels like everything’s off kilter, like his balance has shifted and the information he’s being fed is having a hard time processing, bouncing off his mind without truly being able to sink in. Lance...  _ Lance, _ of all people, asked for him to come back. To... catch up?

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no response comes. So he opts for silence. 

Then Lance is suddenly snapping his fingers. “Oh! I need to go grab my armor.” He turns on his heel then, and Keith stops mid-step, brows rising as he finds himself caught by Lance’s grin. It wasn’t often he was on the receiving end of that look. He doesn’t know how to process that either. “I’m gonna go suit up. Meet you at the training deck?”

Keith blinks. “Uh. Sure?”

Lance’s grin shifts, quirking more at the edges, head tilting, eyes crinkling playfully at the edges as his expression moves more into something Keith’s familiar with. “You say that like it’s a question. What? Not sure you can make it to the training deck? You practically  _ lived _ there, and it’s not like it’s been  _ that _ long.”

Keith rolls his eyes, feeling a huff of an exhale past his lips. “Whatever, Lance,” he mutters, lightly shoving Lance’s shoulder as he walks past him. He expects some sort of affronted reply, a sound or a short word at least. Instead, he gets a soft chuckle that leaves him feeling even more strange. He refuses to turn around. 

Being back in the castle is strange. The halls are familiar, the glow nostalgic, the soft hum of energy comforting. But he can’t help but feel that he doesn’t belong.

It’s a subtle feeling. Like a shift in the balance that leaves each step uncertain. A slight itch of unease that he can’t seem to scratch. It’s a voice in the back of his mind, whispering in his ear whenever he feels the warmth of familiarity start to seep in, reminding him that he left. He has no right to be here. He has no home here.

It keeps him suspended, tense, uncertain and weightless. Unable to fully relax and find his footing.

The halls look the same as they did months ago, but they feel different now, and he knows the change has nothing to do with the castle. 

* * *

The training deck illuminates as he steps through the doors, looking exactly as he remembers it. Black, white, and chrome. Glowing blue accents. It feels... strange. Being back here. It’s much brighter than the Blade’s training areas. Much whiter. Less purple. A lot more empty. 

When he starts to feel the familiar itch acting up beneath his skin, he calls for training bots. Three of them. Set at a few levels higher than he last practiced with here. He’s grown a lot since then. Learned a lot. 

It’s not exactly an easy fight, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He moves through them fluidly, dodging strikes, steps automatic and movements practiced. His knife spins in his grip, shifting from hand to hand. He leaves it in the air to turn, trusting he does so quick enough that it’ll still be right where he needs it to be when his next hand moves to catch it. 

He disposes of the first bot quickly enough, and it’s only when one of the others swings down, giving him little room to dodge, that he extends his blade, catching the bot’s on the edge of his sword. He grunts, gritting his teeth at the weight, then pushes back before slipping away, down, stepping out of the bot’s sweeping arch, slashing out at the other one. 

By the time the two remaining bots dissolve into a smattering of blue pixels, drifting briefly and aimlessly in the open air of the training deck, he’s worked up a sweat, but it feels good. It feels freeing. 

He wipes the sweat off his brow with a forearm, half turning when he spots him out of the corner of his eye. A figure he hadn’t seen while concentrated on the fight. Lance stands just inside the doors, far out of the way but well into the room. He’s dressed in his blue paladin armor, helmet held in front of him, cradled in his hands. 

And he’s staring at Keith, eyes widen and jaw gone slack, lips parted. His face is so open, yet so blank. Keith has a hard time reading it, but it makes something in him stir. A restlessness that has him shifting his weight, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

“What?” He hadn’t meant to snap. He really hadn’t.

Lance shakes his head, visibly coming out of whatever thought had held him captive. And suddenly his smile is back, that familiar cocky smirk, but there’s a waiver to it that Keith has no explanation for. “Nothing. I just... forget how good you are when you’re not around all the time.”

Keith blinks, once again thrown off balance. He’s... not used to getting compliments. Not from the Blade, and definitely not from Lance. His eyes narrow once more, lips twisting into a small frown. “Who are you and what have you done with Lance?”

That, at least, brings some normalcy between them. The strange softness that had been clinging to him dissipates as he rolls his eyes, voice dry as he says, “Ha, very funny. Am I not allowed to compliment you once in a while?”

“You never have before.” Keith shifts, turning to face him more directly as Lance starts across the room. 

“Yeah, well, people change,” he mumbles, voice muffled as he slides his helmet on. He stops a few feet away, hip cocked to the side and arms crossed over his chest. “You’ve changed. You’ve gotten better.”

Keith feels a tug at the corner of his lips. “Training does that.”

“I’ve been training, too,” he says it offhandedly, but there’s an edge there. A pride. A challenge. Defensive. Like Keith might try to argue with him on this point. And he might have. Might have rolled his eyes and allowed sarcasm to sharpen his tongue. Had it not been for the odd seriousness Lance carries on his shoulders. A hardness behind the light in his eyes. 

So Keith doesn’t push. Not this time. “Right. You said you had a new... bayard form? That you wanted to show me?” 

“Yeah!” Lance drops a hand to his side, slits on the thigh piece of his armor glowing as the red bayard materializes in his hand. Something deep within Keith squeezes at the sight of it. Then Lance is holding it up, smirk lopsided and cocky. “Check this out.”

Keith isn’t not entirely sure why Lance would want to show  _ him _ , of all people, his new bayard form, but he waits patiently, one eyebrow raised, as Lance’s eyes drift shut. The bayard glows, and when Lance’s eyes snap open, the light shoots outward, blinking away and leaving a red and white sword in its wake. 

And then Keith understands Lance’s excitement. 

Both of Keith’s brows shoot upward, scowl dropping as he takes in the sight of Lance giving his new sword a few experimental swings. “Cool, huh?”

“That’s... impressive,” he says it slowly, but he means it. Lance has always been impressive when it comes to mastering his bayard. He had been the first to discover shifting to different weapon forms, and apparently now he’s the first to be able to shift to a different weapon entirely. 

Lance makes a good paladin, and a good pilot for Red.

Keith’s stomach flutters even as his heart clenches at that thought.

Lance flashes him a bright grin before his eyes drift to the sword he holds up in front of him, eyes sparkling. “Allura says it’s an Altean broadsword.” He gives it a few more swings before letting it fall to his side, turning to face Keith once more. “She also said I need more practice with it. Wanna help me out?”

Keith’s brows pinch. “You called me back here for sword training?” Lance just gives him a one shouldered shrug. “Someone else could train you. Allura could train you.”

“True.” Another shrug. Lips curling into a smirk that’s a hair too soft for Keith’s liking. “But I wanted you.”

And fuck, if that doesn’t do weird things to Keith’s insides. Leaving him a goddamn mess, in his head and in his heart. 

Before he can really consider it, he’s darting forward, sweeping his Marmora blade up in a wide and easy to read arc. He watches as Lance’s eyes widen, mouth falling agape as he stumbles backwards. He manages to catch Keith’s sword on his own, but his stance is shaky and his strength falters. 

Keith pushes a little harder, just to let him know that his grip is poor, and smirks over the top of their blades. “Lesson one. Never let your guard down.”

The smile Lance gives him is brighter than anything Keith has seen in a long time.

* * *

The hours pass in a flurry of movement and the sharp clash of metal on metal.

Sweat dampens his skin, Marmora suit clinging to every movement, yet still giving him the freedom to move. Blood pumps through his veins, bringing with it a torrent of endorphins, excitement, and a strange pride.

Lance is, surprisingly, not a bad student. He’s a little impulsive, a little too quick to show off, and tends to flinch on occasion. He also has a tendency to toss around playful banter where members of the Blade would be silent. But beneath the light hearted jabs is a spark that drives him forwards. A pinch of frustration between his brows. A hard gleam in his eyes. A narrowed glare as his gaze follows Keith’s movements like a hawk.

He gets frustrated easily. He grits his teeth and swings a little too recklessly when Keith parries his attack. Keith is always a step ahead, but Lance is never far behind. He pushes and pushes and pushes long after Keith would have expected him to quit.

And more than that. He  _ learns _ .

Keith corrects him with clipped words and sharp reminders. He does as he has been taught: through tough love and no mercy. Lance takes it in stride. Clenches his jaw and glares when Keith taps him with his blade, reminding him of a mistake. Mutters something sour when Keith trips him for poor footing. Gets snarky when Keith gives him advice. 

But Keith doesn’t mind, because it’s clear Lance is listening. He can see it in how Lance frowns and adjusts his stance on his own. In how he starts reacting to Keith’s attempts to trip him, scuttling away without grace but effectively enough. In how his swings get stronger, his parries quicker. And most importantly, he can see it in the confident pull of his shoulders. 

And when he manages to catch Keith off guard, nearly knocking his blade out of his hand and placing the tip of his broadsword to Keith’s throat before he can recover, the grin on his lips and the light in his eyes is worth any ounce of frustration Keith had felt in teaching him. 

* * *

For the most part, they’re left alone. That doesn’t, however, stop everyone from poking their heads into the room at least once. 

They come by one by one, peeking into the control room with excuses on their tongues and innocent expressions mounted on their faces. The first time, Keith is willing to believe it. After it happens again and again, he stops believing in the coincidence. 

Coran is the first to stop by, claiming that he was passing by when he heard voices other than Lance’s. He claps Keith on the shoulder, saying it’s good to have him back, eyes crinkling at the edges and a genuine smile warming beneath his mustache. 

Allura comes by next, using much the same excuse as Coran. She slides into the room, eager to talk about the swords and how far Lance has come. She claims it’s about time someone showed Lance how to properly handle a weapon, and he huffs, but they’re both smiling. When she tries to edge her way into their training session, Lance’s smile falters and he pouts, shooing her out of the room. She goes with a laugh, throwing over her shoulder how she’s glad Keith is back.

Hunk is the next, peeking around the doors as they slide open, hesitant as he creeps into the room, waiting patiently as Keith and Lance finish up a bout. He waits until he’s acknowledged before making his way over, babbling about how he overheard Coran and Allura talking about him being back on the ship and thought he’d come by to say hi. There’s a moment of awkward hesitation before Hunk is rushing forward, scooping Keith up into a hug that takes him off his feet. He tenses, but it’s not long before he melts into the embrace and finds himself smiling, assuring Hunk that he’ll at least stay for dinner. 

Pidge forgoes all pleasantries and all excuses. She comes barreling into the training deck, shoving Lance away in the middle of a fight, and throws herself at Keith. He blinks in surprise as her small arms wrap around his midsection, head burying into his chest. His hands hover around her, uncertain for just a moment, before he’s returning the hug. She tells him she missed him. She tells him that she’s glad he’s back. And she punches him before she leaves, telling him sternly to come by more often. 

The fact that everyone here would take time out of their day to specifically come to this room merely to see him is a strangely hard pill to swallow. 

It leaves him feeling feathery light and bubbly in his chest, stomach churning pleasantly. Fingertips buzzing and a strange weight removed from his shoulders, allowing him to stand just a little taller without feeling like he’s about to sink into the ground. 

“You look surprised they all missed you,” Lance says, voice soft and amused. Keith tears his gaze away from the door where Pidge just disappeared, the small smile that had been ghosting across his lips falling. Lance watches him with his own smile, small and secretive and strangely fond. His eyes are lidded, head tilted to the side, crinkled at the edges from the smile lifting his cheeks. 

Keith’s heart flips, making him feel like he can’t catch his breath, and he looks away. “I am.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be.” A hand comes down on his shoulder, strong and confident and comforting. Keith looks at it for a moment before lifting his eyes, gazing at Lance from beneath his lashes. His grin is a shade brighter than the glowing lights of the castle. “You’re one of us, man. And we like when the family’s together.”

* * *

“We found Pidge’s dad,” Lance says, handing Keith a water pouch and dropping to the floor beside him. He’s all limbs, leaning back on one arm and legs sprawled out in front of him. If he’s sitting a little closer than necessary, neither of them say anything. 

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, surprise rolling through him. He glances at Lance, lifting the pouch and struggling for a moment to catch the straw with his lips. 

Lance watches, a smile playing across his features. He lets out a soft snort, but otherwise lets it go. He looks away, across the training deck, lines around his eyes becoming strained and gaze becoming absent. “Yeah. It was a little rough. Zarkon had him and wanted to exchange him for Lotor. It was... a tough call. Lotta emotions and opinions around that, you know? And then Shiro...”

Keith turns to face him a little more fully, lips pursing. “What about Shiro?”

Lance shakes his head, waving Keith off with his water pouch. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk about it later. He just... made some tough calls, and our communication wasn’t the best, but we got through it fine.” There’s a strain there. A tension in his expression. Shadows beneath his eyes. But before Keith can question it, Lance is smiling again, already moving forward. “But the point is, we sent him back to Earth and everything, and we sent messages to our families and stuff.”

Keith hums acknowledgement, glancing away, down at where the dark colors of his suit stand out against the pristine floors. Something twists inside him, but it’s nothing unfamiliar. It’s nothing he hasn’t learned to deal with.

“I wanted to get one from you, too, but it was all so quick, and you were on a mission, and we couldn’t get ahold of you before he had to go.”

“It’s okay,” he finds himself saying. Carefully. Neutrally. And he finds... it  _ is _ okay. “There’s no one back there for me.”

He sees Lance shrug out of the corner of his eye, but more than that, he  _ feels _ it. Feels Lance’s arm lift and fall, brushing against his own. He isn’t sure when or why Lance is leaning into him, but he finds he doesn’t mind. “I had a feeling you’d say something emo like that.” Keith opens his mouth to protest, but Lance nudges him playfully. “But the world deserves to know they have the mighty Keith Kogane looking out for them.” When Keith glances at him, Lance winks. “Don’t worry. I made you sound super cool.”

An unfamiliar heat creeps up his neck, and he looks away before it can settle onto his cheeks. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how he feels warm and his chest feels tight and there’s this strange buzz radiating from where Lance leans into him. But it makes the tight knot in his gut loosen. Makes his shoulders relax. And it loosens his tongue enough for him to say—

“I found my mom.”

Lance leans away from him then, and he glances up to find he’s sat up straight, staring at Keith with his mouth agape. “No shit?” He asks after a long moment, voice barely a breath.

Keith feels the corner of his lip quirking. “No shit.”

Lance pulls his legs in, crossing them and shifting so he faces Keith more fully. “You found her?”

The other corner of his lip pulls upward. “I found her.”

“She’s... alive?” He says it with a hesitation, but Keith finds himself chuckling, a giddiness welling up inside him. 

“She’s alive.”

Lance gaps for a moment more before a wide grin breaks out across his face, all teeth and crinkling eyes. “Holy shit, Keith, you have a mom.”

And then there are arms around him, wrapping him up in an embrace that’s warmer and tighter and closer than any he’s received all day. Lance pulls him to his chest, practically pulling him into his lap, cheek resting atop Keith’s head. It’s an awkward angle. There’s no finesse to it. He’s got a knee in his rib and he’s hunched over uncomfortably. 

But he relaxes into it anyway. Wraps his arms around Lance’s waist, gently at first, but then tightly. Tight like he needs it to ground himself, to anchor himself, to steady himself. And he breathes. He breathes and for the first time, with all the chaos and action and constant  _ go go go _ lifestyle of the Blades set aside for the moment, he lets the knowledge sink it. Lets it sink into his chest, warm and bright. Let’s the warmth seep out through his limbs. Let’s it melt away the tension in his muscles and the knot in his gut that’s been so tightly wound and black and twisted for so long. 

“I have a mom,” he says it like a whisper. Awed and barely there. Afraid to let it out in the open lest it fade away. But instead it makes the fact realer, more concrete. He repeats it, feeling something pleasant bubble in his chest, fingers tightening around the hard plates of Lance’s armor. “I have a mom.”

And they stay like that for far too long. Until there’s a kink in his spine and an ache in his ribs and he’s pretty certain Lance’s leg has to be asleep from where Keith is half sprawled over it. But Lance doesn’t let go, and neither does he.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Lance says, a whisper into his hair. His voice is thick. Weighted. Slurred. Cracking at the edges like he’s trying not to cry. For Keith or for himself, Keith doesn’t know. “What’s she like? Is she hot?”

Keith snorts, a sharp huff of an exhale that fogs a patch of armor where his face is pressed against Lance’s chest. “She would gut you if she heard you say that,” he mumbles, voice as thick as Lance’s. 

He feels Lance’s chuckle make his chest shake, feels the exhale brush past his hair, tickling his ear. “So you get your people skills from her. Good to know.”

Keith shoves him to the floor, and Lance laughs, kicking out a foot to shove Keith away. It starts a brief wrestling match between the two, punctuated by breathless laugher that sounds like relief and feels like fresh air. 

And if both of them have eyes that are rimmed with red and voices that crack, neither of them draw attention to it.

* * *

He’s surprised by Lance’s improvement. It’s not instant, nor is it drastic. He doesn’t suddenly become a great swordsman over the course of a couple hours. He does, however, build a foundation that’s solid and built on sturdy resolve and unshakable determination.

It’s a foundation that Keith is certain will stick. There’s calculation behind his eyes, a sharp gaze that sees everything. A seriousness hidden behind his smile. 

He’s realizing that Lance’s banter is to fill the silence, to keep things light, and an attempt to take Keith’s notice away from his mistakes. Mistakes that he instantly corrects on his own,  _ knowing _ that he made them, and using his words to distract Keith from correcting something he’s already aware of. 

Once Keith notices this, he starts letting those moments slide. Let’s Lance think he isn’t picking up on his fumbles and his mistakes. Let’s Lance police himself for the sake of growing and learning. 

There is, however, a limit to how much he’s willing to let go. And there’s one mistake Lance keeps making. Again, and again, and again. A mistake that he’s afraid will become a learned habit. And it’s one that will get him killed on a battlefield. 

“You’re leaving yourself open,” he says, scowling as his blade comes to rest at Lance’s midsection, tip pressed lightly against the exposed black body suit. Lance freezes, sword in the air, blinking like he wasn’t expecting Keith to be there. It’s stupid. His whole left side was wide open. 

At the sharpness in Keith’s tone, Lance scowls, batting his sword away and stepping back. “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it.” He falls into a defensive stance. One that Keith taught him. Both hands on the handle of his sword and blade poised between them. 

Keith doesn’t move, his own frown deepening. “No, this is something you need to understand  _ now _ .” 

He moves quickly, swiping his blade out to clash against Lance’s sword. He stumbles backwards, eyes wide as he swings back. Keith easily dodges the attack, moving beneath the blade and stepping up to Lance’s side, his sword moving with his hand, edge stopping when it’s once against pressed along Lance’s midsection. Had he kept moving, he could have dragged it along Lance’s side. His head is turned, meeting Lance’s surprised gaze with one of iron. 

“You can’t leave yourself open,” he says, voice pitched low. He holds the blade along Lance’s armor for a moment longer before he steps away, falling into his stance. Lance hesitates for only a moment before mirroring him. 

Keith gives him only a second of reprieve before he’s rushing forward again. Pushing the offensive. Attacking. Forcing Lance to react. Then Lance swings to the side, leaving too much of himself open once again. They freeze when Keith’s sword stops an inch from his neck. 

Navy eyes meet brilliant blue over the gleam of his blade. “This isn’t like fighting with your rifle. This isn’t like using a gun. With a sword, you’re not ranged. You don’t have the luxury of distance to afford you more reaction time. When you fight with a sword, you’re in the middle of things.” 

He steps back, giving Lance enough room only long enough for him to collect himself before he’s swinging again, coming at him with the speed and efficiency he’d use to attack sentries. Lance yelps, scrambling away and barely managing to get his sword up in time to block. But as soon as their swords clash, Keith is pulling away, spinning to the side, swinging again with a new angle, a new momentum. 

“You’re on the front lines. You need to act and react quickly. You don’t get time to think about it,” he says louder, through gritted teeth as he pushes Lance, swinging and jabbing again and again, barely giving the paladin a moment to breathe. He switches hands, throwing Lance momentarily off. He ducks down low and attempt to swipe at his feet, but Lance dances away, scrambling for balance. Keith runs at him and stops when their swords clash, and they hold, strength to strength. He glares at Lance over their crossed blades. “You need to learn quickly. Don’t let yourself make mistakes. Train yourself to have quicker reactions. So when the moment comes, you’re able to act on instinct.”

He gives a final shove and steps away, sword arm falling to his side. Despite his relaxed stance, Lance remains poised, sword raised, eyeing Keith warily. Good. He’s learning. 

“When you fight with a sword, There’s no time to think, no time to breathe. You fight, or you die. The sword is the first line of defense. If they get past  _ you _ , they get to your allies. Your friends.” His fingers curl into a fist at his side, pressure of his nails pushing into his palm even through the gloves of his suit. His other hand curls tight around the hilt of his blade. He feels something hot and acidic burning at the back of his throat, making his heart burn and his lungs constrict. He holds Lance’s gaze until he sees the concern start to soften the edges of wariness, and then he looks away. “So you can’t let them get past you.” 

He feels the lump in his throat. Feels it threatening to choke him. He clears his throat, lifting his chin high and taking a step back, turning away from Lance, lifting his blade to stare at the gleam beneath the glowing bright lights of the Altean castle. 

“When you wield a sword, you’re the first line of defense. You can’t let people get past you. And sometimes that means you have to make sacrifices,” he says softly, afraid that if he raises his voice, it’ll crack. Still, he hopes Lance can’t hear him at all. And he’s foolish to do so. Even his ragged whisper carries in this vast room, silent save for the gentle hum of energy through the walls. 

“Is that why you did it?” The question comes so softly that it takes Keith a moment to register it. 

He tilts his head, glancing sideways at Lance. His sword is lowered to his side, and he stands up straight. Eyes hard as they stare at Keith. Lips twisted into a small frown. His expression is carefully blank. Carefully neutral. It makes Keith’s heart race, worried about what he’s possibly hiding beneath. 

“What?”

Lance sighs, chest heaving and shoulders sagging with it. He pulls his helmet off with his free hand, shoving it under the arm holding his sword, propping it up against his hip. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, sweat making it stand up on end. He looks away, off to the side and beyond Keith, but the careful mask doesn’t fade. Nor does the hard glint in his eyes or the lines around them. “Is that why you nearly killed yourself to save us on Naxzela?”

Keith feels something hot and sharp twist in his chest. Feels his heart stutter before rampaging into a beat that’s too erratic. It leaves him lightheaded and dizzy, limbs tingling as ice drips down his spine. He feels his eyes widen, brows pinching as his jaw goes slack. 

He— he didn’t think they knew about that. He didn’t  _ want _ them to know about that. 

Lance glances at him briefly, and he snorts a short laugh, lips curling into a small, sardonic smile. The lines around his eyes stand out against his skin, emphasizing the bitter gleam in those blue irises. “Yeah, we know about that. Matt told us.”

With the way Lance is looking at him and the guilt that twists in his gut, it hurts to hold eye contact. So he glares at the sword in his hand, eyes tracing the edge of it before settling on the reflection of his own eyes. 

“I was angry with you. I really was.” And Keith can hear it. He can hear the simmering rage and frustration that he’s trying to hard to keep down. He can hear the strain without having to look at his face. “Everyone was really upset about it, but I was mad. No one gave you permission to throw your life away like that. I didn’t want you dying for me.” When he laughs, it’s not light hearted. It’s twisted and bitter, and Keith hates it. “I was totally gearing up to kick your ass. Was gonna give you an earful and everything. They told me to wait and calm down, but I nearly flew off with Red in the middle of the night just to find you. I nearly did...”

He trails off with a long exhale, and Keith risks a glance at him. His eyes are no longer hard, nor are his features threatening to twist into rage. He just looks... tired. Exhausted. A bone deep weariness that Keith recognizes because he feels it, too. Feels it and pushes it aside because he can’t allow himself to feel it. Afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep going. 

It makes him want to reach out to Lance, and his fingers twitch with the need. But that’s a territory he’s never wandered into on his own before, and he’s not sure how to start. 

“But then I thought about it. I thought about it a lot.” He stares at the floor somewhere behind Keith, fingers of his free hand rubbing together, brows pinched. His lips twist into something sour, but Keith knows it’s not directed at him. “And I realized... in your position, I would’ve done the same thing.”

That makes him feel like the air is punched from his lungs. He thinks he might have made a sound, because Lance looks at him then, smile softening the strain in his features. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, voice soft and gentle. Nothing like the restraint or careful neutrality of earlier. Something calmer. Like the current of a stream stream. Gentle and steady. “I still hate that you did it— that you were  _ going _ to do it. I’m still mad at you for that. But... I guess what I’m saying is... I understand.”

And there’s the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. The lift of a genuine smile, even as there’s something more solemn in his gaze. 

“Lance.” His voice sounds rough, strained and near choked by the lump in Keith’s throat. 

Lance takes a step toward him. Then another. Closing the distance as if approaching a frightened animal. All the while, that  _ look _ never leaves his eyes. “And I’m really glad you didn’t have to go through with it.” For a moment, a strange wistfulness lights up his eyes. A dry amusement that comes with a soft huff. “I guess I have Lotor to thank for that.”

Keith swallows, trying again with a little more success. “Lance—“

But whatever he was going to say is lost as Lance grabs him, pulling him to his chest. His sword and helmet remain at his side, other arm wrapped around Keith’s shoulders and holding him tight. He buries his face in the crook of Keith’s shoulder, and Keith can hear his shuddering exhale. 

It takes him a moment, but instinct overcomes surprise. Keith’s free hand finds its way around Lance’s waist, arm wrapping around his lower back as he pulls Lance close, pressing away the remaining space between them. Their armor is hard and awkward where it presses together, but Keith doesn’t mind. He ducks his head to Lance’s shoulder, letting his forehead rest on the cool metal. 

It feels... good. It feels good to just be like this. 

“Don’t know what we would’ve done without you, mullet,” Lance mumbles into his shoulder. He can feel the vibration of his voice at the base of his neck. 

“Voltron would be fine,” Keith says. A whisper of truth that hurts to say aloud, shadowed by all the thoughts that at times make him feel better, and at others make him feel like he’s drowning. 

“This isn’t  _ about _ Voltron, Keith. This is about  _ you _ , and how much you mean to us.” His voice is thick with emotion, and it makes Keith feel like he’s reeling. “How much you mean to  _ me _ . I need my rival, you know?”

He says the last bit with a weak attempt at humor, lilting at the edges. Keith gives it to him, offering a soft chuckle like a peace treaty between them before he sighs, sinking further into Lance’s hold. “Thanks, Lance.”

“No problem, man.” It’s with reluctance that they let go, stepping away to give each other space. Lance is smiling, small and genuine, but it falls quickly. Replaced by a pensive frown and a furrowed brow. “There’s... more.” Keith raises one brow, silently encouraging him to continue. He breathes in deep, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling as he lets it out in a sigh. “There’s... something wrong with Shiro.”

Keith’s eyes instantly narrow, a clipped edge to his words as he says, “Shiro’s  _ fine— _ “

“He’s  _ not _ , Keith,” Lance snaps, head lowering to pin Keith with a fierce scowl. “You’re not here. You don’t see it every day. There’s something...  _ off _ about him. And I  _ know _ if you stopped and thought about it, you’d see it, too.”

“Lance—“ he tries, desperation clawing at his chest, because he knows— he knows— he doesn’t want to believe it, chalked it up to it being  _ him _ and not  _ Shiro _ because Shiro has to be fine. He has to be. 

Lance lifts a hand, cutting him off before it falls back to his side. In defeat. In resignation. In exhaustion. “Just... trust me, okay?”

And he’s surprised by how quickly he calms down. By how quickly the clawing stops. By how quickly the hot, sharp knife pulls out of his chest. Lance’s voice is a cooling balm, easing away the heated nerves and wayward worries. Chasing away the shadows to let in a breath of fresh air. Grounding him. Steadying him. With just a request. So simple, yet holding so much weight. 

Keith doesn’t even have to consider it. 

“I trust you.”

Lance visibly relaxes, the smile on his lips looking like relief. His next request comes easier. A soft plea. Tentative, as if afraid to get ahead of himself, but unable to hide his hope and eagerness. Rambling forward before he trips and loses his momentum. Words bubbling like a babbling brook. “Please stay. We need you. You know Shiro better than anyone. Just stay and keep an eye on him. If something happens, you can fly Black. Hell, I’ll let you fly Red. I don’t care. The Blade will be fine without you, but we need you. We’re... we’re better with you. So please, just... stay?”

Leaving was one of the hardest decisions Keith had ever made. He questioned it. Tore himself up about it. Let the guilt and resolve bite and chip at him in turn. He had stayed firm in his decision because he needed to. Because it took so much to make that decision in the first place. 

But staying, he finds, is the easiest decision to make. 

He turns on his heel, striding several steps back towards the center of the room, lifting his chin as he says loudly and clearly, “Initiate new training sequence. Two gladiators. Level six.”

When he looks back to Lance, his head is cocked to the side, watching him with a curious raise to his brow, lips pursed forward as he watches Keith, uncertainty and curiosity warring in his eyes. 

Keith feels the tug of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Two holes open up on the ceiling, and two training bots drop to the floor. He takes up a defensive stance, facing one of them, but eyes on Lance. “If we’re going to be working together again, we need to learn how to fight together.”

Lance’s grin is bright and blinding as he shoves his helmet back on his head. “Aw, yeah! Lance and Keith, neck n’ neck!”

He takes up a defensive stance, facing the other bot, and the two of them shift closer, automatically moving to guard one another. “More like back to back.”

“I like the sound of that.” 

Keith can hear the smile in his voice, and he feels his own curving his lips. “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	10. You've Got Me Like Red & Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M - superheroes - super powers and super gadgets - violence - 9,669 words
> 
> _The galra landed on Earth decades ago, fleeing their own planet’s destruction and an intergalactic war. Now, hidden amongst Earth’s populace, they’re wrecking havoc. Thankfully, the world can rely on Voltron, a team of highly capable heroes dedicated to taking down the galra._
> 
> _Their team is complete and capable, but after meeting a mysterious member of the underground resistance group, Blade of Marmora, Lance is convinced the team could use one more person._
> 
> _Now if he could only convince Red to join._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a long time ago but I honestly still really love this au and Lance as an archer with a bionic eye

When they first meet, Lance doesn’t know who he is. 

Lance crouches on his perch, a couple stories up and off to the side of the main building. He’s got a good vantage point from here, but that’s not too surprising. He’s good at finding vantage points. His bow is in his hand, not quite held up but definitely held at the ready. One arrow notched and held in place by a few careful fingers, tugged back just enough to start to feel the resistance of the string. 

He’s poised in limbo, body relaxed yet still as stone. Internally wound tight while externally at ease. 

The breeze tugs at his hair, shifting across the bare skin of his upper arms. It’s a welcoming relief. Just cool enough to speak of fall, a hidden bite that whispers of the coming winter. He keeps an ear out, but most things are drowned out by the usual din of the nearby city. It doesn’t matter, sight is his thing anyway.

He scans the streets and pathways below, eyeing the windows that he can see. He’s not picking up any heat signatures, and he hasn’t for the past few minutes. Not since he got to his perch and picked off the few remaining sentries. It’s... strange. 

He puts a finger to his earpiece. “How’s it going, Jade?” His voice is muffled just slightly through the fabric of the mask clinging to the bottom half of his face, but it’s not too bad. It’s a breathable and flexible material. Comfortable enough that he sometimes forgets he’s wearing it at all. 

_ “I just got to a data hub thirty seconds ago _ ,” Comes the disgruntled reply.

Lance feels his lips quirk into a small smirk, just enough that it leaks into his voice. “Thirty seconds? You’re losing your touch.”

“ _ Believe it or not, they’ve upped their security since the last time.” _

“Probably didn’t like the fact that you could hack them in ten seconds flat and digitally graffiti your face all over their files.”

There’s an amused hum. “ _ Too bad their security still sucks. Just a couple extra walls. It’ll take no time.” _

_ “Blue, status report _ .” There goes Allura. Clipped and quick. She’s always been far more serious when it comes to missions. Not one to banter on the job. They all deal with the stress of it differently. He makes jokes, Pidge uses sarcasm, and Allura gets short and straight forward. 

He’ll humor her though. This isn’t just an ordinary job. This is a rescue mission for one of their own.

“Nothing out this way, Rose. Cleared it out when I first got here, but it’s been quiet since. Can’t even pick up on heat signatures, and Jade upgraded my eye to see through two feet of solid wall in a hundred foot radius.”

“ _ I’ve got a really weird feeling about this, _ ” Hunk says, ever the voice of trepidation. They’ve learned to heed Hunk’s gut. 

_ “Bad feeling? _ ” Allura asks sharply.

_ “Not quite? Not really bad, just... weird. Weird feeling. I dunno what to make of it.” _

There’s a contemplative hum.  _ “Just stay on alert. I don’t like the feel of this place either. It’s too... empty.” _

“It’s almost like someone already swept through, or the galra are somewhere else tonight.”

_ “Maybe we just got lucky?” _ Hunk suggests.

“God, I sure hope so. That would be such a great change of pace.”

_ “I’m in!” _ Pidge announcement, voice becoming urgent and hurried.  _ “And I found him. He’s in the eastern most building of this compound. The one we passed coming in. Third floor. Room 307, facing the north. It’s... an experiment room.” _

He hears a sharp intake of breath and a soft gasp. Feels himself stiffen, too, before his resolve hardens. “I’m closest to that building. I’m going on ahead.”

No one tries to stop him, but he does get Allura’s firm,  _ “Be careful, Blue. We’re on our way.” _

He lets go of his com and turns to the east, eyes settling on the building in question. Sliding his arrow back into his quiver and sling his bow over his shoulder, he wastes no time scrambling down from his perch. Keeping his eye set on heat detection, he hurries through the alleys of the compound. He doesn’t come across anyone, and that’s more unsettling than it is a relief. 

When he reaches the building, the entrance is unguarded, and he slips in on silent feet, pulling his bow from his shoulder and once again notching an arrow. Nothing. No one in the lobby. No one in the adjoining rooms. He reaches the elevators without trouble, and punches the number three. As he rises, he feels his gut sink and twist. He doesn’t know what he’ll find, and he’s scared to find out. 

The galra are known for their experimentation with alien technology. Arriving on earth through a wormhole in a desperate attempt to escape the collapse of their home planet, they set up root and operate in the shadows. Allura and Coran came not long after, two of the last of their kind after their people warred with the galra for centuries. They’re the ones that brought them together, who founded Voltron and Altea Corp. They’re doing their best to stamp out the galra influence, but it never seems to be enough. They breed and spread like vermin. Always another nest. Always another base. Always more in the shadows. 

The fact that they managed to capture Shiro is terrifying. The fact that he’s being held in one of their experimentation rooms is a nightmare. Lance only hopes they’re not too late. 

The elevator stops on the third floor, and he’s greeted by a welcoming committee. One with guns trained on him. Instincts throw him to the floor in an instant, dodging out of the way as they open fire. He aims as he falls, shooting one of them in the chest and causing them to stagger backwards. Then he’s on his feet, grabbing the gun from his loosening grip and spinning, using the man as a shield as he aims the gun at his companions. 

Nothing he can’t handle. He fells them easily. Leaves their bodies on the floor and tries not to think too hard about whether or not they’re dead. He has other things to worry about, and he clamps down hard on the growing nausea that always comes after a fight. 

This fight isn’t over yet.

He hurries through the halls, staying one step ahead of the galra attempting to swarm him with the use of his heat vision and his impeccable aim. He’s always been a good shot. Hand-to-eye coordination unlike any other. A steady hand. An ability to wait for the right shot. But with the use of the eye Altea Corp. designed for him, he’s damn inhuman. 

He gets arrows off right as the sentries round the corners, arrows sinking exactly where Lance wants them to. He keeps running, keeps moving, yanking the arrows out of their chests as he hurries past, before the bodies even hit the ground. Usually he’s one for stealth, but this isn’t a mission for stealth. Not anymore. They know he’s here, and they no doubt know who he’s after. He just needs to get to Shiro as quickly as possible, get him safe, and wait for the team. 

So he leaves a trail of bodies behind him and doesn’t spare a glance back.

He slows when he reaches the hallway of rooms that face north. Slows even more when he sees that the door to room 307 is ajar. Even stranger still is the trail of unconscious and bleeding bodies that lead down the hallway in the opposite direction. 

Did his team get to Shiro first?

However, it’s not his team that he finds when he pushes the door open, bow poised and fingers lingering over his quiver. A couple of galra dressed in what he’s come to associate with their scientist uniforms are laid out on the floor. Unconscious or dead, he doesn’t know. And there, across the room, helping an unconscious Shiro off the slab and pulling his arm over their shoulder, is a member of the Blade of Marmora. 

He knows of the Blade. All of Voltron does. Though they don’t know much about them. They’re incredibly secretive, all wear the same matching outfits with the same mask and hood that hide everything. They’re usually in and out before Voltron can stop them, let alone talk to them, or do anything but catch a quick glimpse. They always seem to pop up where the galra are, but they don’t seem to be part of the galra organization. Nor do they seem to want to stand against Voltron. 

Tentative allies. They don’t know enough to trust, but enemy of my enemy and all that. They’ve never been hurt or attacked or even vaguely threatened by anyone from the Blade. So he doesn’t exactly fear for his life or Shiro’s.

Still, he doesn’t like the look of one of the Blades shouldering his teammate. 

“No. No, no, no, nonono.” He says as he steps into the room. The Blade’s head snaps up, glowing blue eyes of the mask training on him. He shivers, hating that he can’t read them. Still, the Blade doesn’t move as he moves forward, shouldering his bow and grabbing Shiro’s other arm, slinging it over his shoulder. “I’m saving Onyx.”

The Blade just stares at him, and Lance realizes that while he can’t read their facial expressions, they’re pretty open about their body language. Stiff and rigid with uncertainty and hesitation. The obvious need to flee, but unable to do so. 

Lance just levels him with a flat look, knowing the guy can’t see his frown but hoping it shows in his eyes nonetheless. There’s no way the Blade doesn’t know who he is. Voltron exists in the spotlight. As long as they’re in uniform, everyone knows who they are. Superheroes, and all that. “Look, my team is coming. We’re getting him out of here.”

The Blade finally relaxes, though just a fraction. “Fine.” A voice deep and rugged, thought stiff and indignant. He’s reluctant as he lets Shiro go, slipping away slowly so Lance has time to adjust to holding all his body weight. 

Turns out Shiro is  _ really fucking heavy _ , but he bites at his lip, unwilling to ask for help now. 

The Blade wears a belt around his waist, on top of his uniform. He reaches behind him, pulling his dagger from its sheath as he stalks toward the door. He crouches, peering around the corner before gesturing to Lance to follow. Biting back a grunt of effort he does, but it’s slow progress with Shiro’s unconscious weight dragging him down. 

He swears he hears a sigh before the Blade returns to his side, lifting Shiro by his other arm once again, though he keeps his dagger in his hand. 

“What’re you even doing here?” Lance asks as they make it out into the hallway, guiding them toward the elevators. He keeps his eyes out, turning this way and that to scan for heat signatures. But it seems like, between the two of them, there’s no one left on this floor. 

“I can’t tell you that,” comes the automatic and gruff reply. 

Lance frowns, brows furrowing as he stops. The Blade jerks to a stop a moment later, turning to find Lance’s gaze already on him. He stares openly at the glowing spots where his eyes should be. He stares, unblinking, hearing and feeling the soft  _ whirs _ that his right eye makes as it adjusts and readjusts, moving through Lance’s different scanners. It took some getting used to, but Lance finds it mostly comforting now. Still, he knows it’s a little disconcerting for others to see. Especially this close.

Higher than average body heat. Quick heartbeat. Armor covers his face and chest, but most other points are left vulnerable. His arrows could no doubt pierce that suit. 

The Blade stares back, but Lance can see the subtle shift of his weight. Nervousness. Good. Most people get antsy when Lance stares like this. One natural dark blue eye and the other bright and icy blue. Faint backlit glow and a clear mechanical movement when he shifts through scanners. It tends to freak people out, and he uses that to his advantage. 

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t just shoot you right here, right now.”

He can’t see the frown or the frustration, but he hears it in the Blade’s voice. Sees the way he stiffens and straightens. “We’re on the same side, you idiot.”

“Prove it. Tell me why you’re here. We know next to nothing about the Blade. As far as I know, this is the only conversation that’s ever happened between our sides that wasn’t between our leaders. We don’t know what you’re after and what your goals are, and that makes you dangerous. Especially when I just found you attempting to get away with the unconscious body of our leader.”

Another sigh. Shoulders slumping in defeat. Head turning away and mask tilted toward the floor. “We came here to disrupt a transfer of prisoners. Experiment subjects. They were set to be moved from this location to another. We blew up a satellite base a mile or so away to distract them, and came here to get the prisoners.” It’s reluctant, but sounds truthful enough. Lance watches him, eye scanners trained on his vital signs. Nothing pointed to a lie. 

“That’s nice and all, but that doesn’t explain why you’re  _ here _ , and your buddies aren’t.”

The Blade stiffens again, straightening and shifting Shiro’s arm draped over his shoulder. Shifting  _ closer _ . Protective. “The others left with the prisoners we freed from the transport cells. I didn’t know Shiro was here, but when I found out, I—“ His voice sounds thick with emotion. Far more than Lance had been expecting. “I couldn’t leave him.”

“Alright,” he says with a sharp nod, already moving forward again. The Blade stumbles a moment before keeping up. “I trust you.”

“That easily?” Incredulous. Wary. Doubtful.

Lance tilts his head to gaze at him sidelong, grinning though he knows the Blade won’t be able to see it. But he can feel the amusement crinkling his eyes. “Yup.”

A hesitation. “Why?”

Lance looks away, eye shifting through the gears like a shuttering camera, switching back to his heat detection. He picks up a few heat signatures sliding up from the floor, no doubt from the elevator. “You called him Shiro.”

“... _ Fuck _ .”

Lance’s grin widens, pausing as he guides their maneuvering of Shiro to set him against a wall. “We’ve got some company.” He nods down the hall as the elevator dings open, galra flooding into the hallway. He pulls his bow from his shoulder. “Wanna show me what you’ve got?”

They clear the halls together and manage to get Shiro to the first floor safely, holding their own there until Lance’s team arrives. By the time they do, the Blade has slipped seamlessly away, leaving the others to question Lance’s story. 

They get Shiro back to Altea Corp. safe and sound, but it takes a week before he’s back on his feet. Even then, he has shadows in his eyes. He’s got a fancy new metal arm that Lance hadn’t noticed in the moment of his rescue, but now makes him sick to his stomach with the knowledge that the galra took his arm. Still, Shiro takes it in stride, and Pidge and Hunk set to work recalibrating the arm with Altea tech. 

When Lance mentions the Blade who helped him to Shiro, Shiro just smiles. Small and secretive, soft and fond. Calls him a friend but doesn’t elaborate. 

Lance finds his curiosity piqued, though he can’t be certain they’ll ever meet again.

* * *

Lance saw him a few more times after that, but never knew his face. 

He was easy to spot, though. Easy to pick out from the crowd. For one, he was smaller than the others. Significantly so. The smallest Blade Lance has seen so far (not that he gets to see many), and one without a tail or ridiculous body proportions. In fact, his little Blade is built lean and lithe. Quick and agile. And that suit clings to every curve of his body throughout every movement. 

Not that Lance is looking. Except he totally is. 

He also stands out by the belt he wears. They all have various belts and straps that hold their weapons of choice. Usually some sort of blade, all with a similar coloring and style, all with the same symbol and stone on the tilt. They all transform, Lance has seen it in action, but his little Blade’s is usually dormant in the shape of a dagger at his back. And he usually fights with it as a dagger, too, only occasionally making it grow to a sword form. 

Not that Lance pays that close of attention. Except he  _ totally _ does. 

There’s something less physical, however, that also makes him stand out. It’s the way he carries himself. The other Blades are calculated and quick. They dive in and out of missions. They never look back. This little Blade almost  _ always _ looks back. He hesitates sometimes. Waits for just a second. Just long enough to decide whether or not team Voltron needs his help or whether they’re fine on their own. They’re usually fine, but that doesn’t stop the Blade from hesitating, looking like he’s itching to turn around. 

Not that Lance has noticed. Except, yeah, he has. 

* * *

He exhales, fingers releasing an arrow. It flies, straight and true, landing exactly where he anticipated the galra sentry being, burying deep in their chest. He barely looks at the impact before ducking down again, already pulling another arrow, this one heavier and fractured, ready to split and shatter and send shards flying upon impact. He leans away from his cover, arrow up, cybernetic eye already sighting down the shaft, target circle in his vision, scanning and searching. 

A group of galra around a corner, heading for where Allura is supposed to be defending Pidge while she does her thing. Inhale. Aim. Exhale. Fire. It’s so quick. He doesn’t question his aim and he doesn’t need to. It hits a wall, shattering into the group. He hears their cries. 

A flash of dark blues and blacks and purples. He turns his head sharply, catching heat signatures and movement slowing for just a second, just long enough for his vision to sharpen on the figure that disappears from sight. He plays back the vision, pausing, confirming what he thought he saw. 

He tilts his head to the side, tapping his earpiece with his shoulder. “We’ve got company.”

_ “Good company or bad company?” _ Shiro’s voice. 

“Blade of Marmora.”

_ “What’re they doing here? _ ” Allura. Voice sharp. 

“Probably fighting galra. Stomping out their drug trade here. Same as us.”

They’ve heard a little more from the Blade over the past few weeks. Their leader has been in contact with the team, exchanging messages with Shiro and Allura. They have a tentative truce. An acknowledgement that they’re on the same side. But the Blade wants no part of the spotlight. They don’t want to be public, and they don’t want to have to abide by the constricting laws the Voltron often finds themselves tangled up in. 

Lance gets it. Allura is a little more cautious. 

A foot step and the subtle hum of an energy blaster charging is the only warning he gets. Instincts take over, and he dives to the side, rolling away as a shot hits the railing at the ledge where he had been perching, taking out a chunk of it. A galra, big and burly, gun pointed at him. 

Too close to draw and shoot, Lance drops his bow to the ground, pulling out a sturdy arrow and charging. He slides, narrowly avoiding another shot and ramming the arrow into the galra’s thigh as he slides by. The galra howls, gun drops to the ground, and it becomes a scuffle. 

Lance doesn’t like to think he’s weak by any means. He works out. His arms have some good strength to them from using his bow. He can run for miles. Swim for longer. But the galra are some kinda mix between alien, human, and genetic experimentation. They’re made to be stronger. Faster. And hit harder. 

It doesn’t take long before he’s been bested. Several new bruises on his skin and bones aching as he’s shoved to the floor. His cheek hits the ground, and he grits his teeth. There’s a hand at the back of his neck, choking of his air supply a little, but not at a good enough angle to actually suffocate him. Break his neck, though? Yeah, that could probably happen.

He struggles, but there’s a knee in his back, pinning him in place. His hands scratch and claw at the ground. He tries to get his own knees under him for leverage. He can see his bow where he left it, sadly out of reach. He can’t get to his quiver. 

_ Fuck _ . It’s times like these where he wishes he had some kind of super soldier genetics like Shiro. Or sturdy mutations like Hunk. Or crazy alien telekinesis like Allura. Hell, even Pidge probably has a million gadgets and tasers on her person at all times. None of them are ever helpless. Not like he is now. 

He grits his teeth and wonders if this is the day that he dies. 

Then there’s a jerk from the body above, a gurgled cry that ends in a hissing exhale, and then the weight is gone, falling to the floor beside him in a heap. He struggles out form the body, rolling onto his knees and spinning around, already reaching for an arrow. 

But he freezes when he sees the Blade with a small build crouching over the body, pulling his knife from the man’s throat. 

“Hey! I know you!” 

The Blade’s head snaps to him, but the mask is expressionless. The voice flat and clipped. “No, you don’t.”

“Yup. Totally do.” Lance pushes him to his feet, hurrying over to snatch up his bow. He feels naked without it. Defenseless. He hates that feeling. His eye is good for a lot of things, but it doesn’t do much when he doesn’t have a weapon. He turns back to the Blade, but the guy is already hurrying away. Lance scrambles after him. “You’re the tiny Blade.”

He sees the Blade’s shoulders stiffen, but he says nothing. 

He scrambles over the ledge where Lance had been perched, and Lance barely hesitates before following. His spot has been found. He needs a new one anyway. Besides, his team is on the move, and he needs to follow them. So with his bow slung over a shoulder, he climbs down after the Blade and hurries to keep up. He likes to think the look he got was curious and impressed. 

“What can I call you?” He asks, launching an arrow over the Blade’s shoulder. He stiffens and freezes in his surprise, and the arrow lands squarely in the chest of a galra that had been coming around the corner ahead of them. When he looks back, it  _ has _ to be impressed. 

“Nothing.”

“Tiny Blade?”

His shoulders rise to his ears. “No.”

“Little Knife?”

The hands at his sides clench, one into a fist and the other around the hilt of his knife. “No.” He turns and walks away. 

“Nice Ass?”

He turns around sharply. “What?”

Lance grins beneath his mask. “Nothing.”

They hurry between buildings, following the sounds of a fight. He can hear a lot of crashing and shouting coming from one direction. Hunk, no doubt. A lot of bright lights another way that indicate Allura and Pidge. This has been a drug bust gone south, and the galra have scattered, leaving them to pick up the pieces. He needs a new vantage point. Now.

He tilts his head, scanning the possible perches with a quick, calculated gaze. He can see easily in the shadows of the night. When he finds the right one, he wastes not time heading for it, slinging his bow over his shoulder as he climbs quickly and efficiently. His gloves and shoes are specially designed for it, and the burn in his muscles is familiar.

Once on his perch, he readies his bow, notches an arrow, and scans the view blow him. He’s surprised to find the Blade has crawled up and perched beside him. “What’re you doing?”

“You clearly need back up.”

Lance hums thoughtfully, gears in his eye whirring as he tries to pinpoint the familiar signatures of his team. His eye is attuned to each of them, making them all stand out among the other bodies. “I’m gonna call you Red.”

“What? Why?” Confusion. Bewilderment. Cute.

“I had a cat named Red once. Acted all grumpy but followed me around everywhere.”

“I’m not following you.” Indignant. Denial. Grumpy. Adorable.

“Plus our team has a lot of color code names, but we don’t have a Red yet.”

“You have Rose.”

“Rose is more pink than red.”

“I’m not part of your team.”

Another thoughtful hum. He pulls the string back, relishes the tension in it. Lets the arrow fly. “But you could be.”

He says nothing to that, but Lance can’t help but think that nothing is better than a refusal. 

Then his eye catches movement, snaps to it like a magnet. Everything seems to slow down as it feeds information to his brain at rapid fire, making the world look like slow motion as he catches every little movement. 

The movement of a galra sentry. The shine of a metal gun. The quick flash of a shot being fired. A shot too big to be a normal gun. Or even an energy blaster. He calculates the aim and trajectory quickly, time still slow to give his brain time to process all the information his eye is feeding him. Or maybe he’s just that fast at processing. 

He moves quickly, twisting and slamming into the Blade at his side. They both roll to the side, falling off the perch. Lance clings to him, bow still in his hand wrapped around the other’s back. Thankfully the perch isn’t too high, and they hit a few surfaces on their way down. He lands first, then rolls, shielding the Blade with his body as the shot hits and the ledge where they had been explodes. 

The Blade rolls them again, shoving them off to the side of the alley as debris begins to fall. 

He’s on top of Lance, straddling him and propping himself up on his elbows as he lifts his head, turning to gaze up at the hole in the building where they had been. Lance blinks up at him, silhouetted by the fire that catches above. His hood fell down in their tumble, pooling around his shoulders. So had his mask, leaving his face bare. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, quiet enough that he’s not quite sure anyone would be able to hear him. The Blade’s head snaps to him anyway, brow furrowing and lips pursing. 

He’s purple. Skin a very light shade of violet. That’s a common trait among the galra. His eyes are deep indigo. Tiny little fangs peek out from his lips. His ears have two points to them, sticking out from a mop of unruly dark purple hair with an under color of magenta. 

“You’re beautiful.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but in his surprise, his brain-to-mouth filter kinda gets jammed, and he’s left saying what he’s thinking because  _ holy shit _ . This guy is gorgeous. 

The Blade’s eyes widen, lips parting and, okay, he’s got some  _ very _ kissable lips. And Lance  _ swears _ he sees a dark blush spreading over his cheeks. But then the Blade is pushing off of him, standing and dusting himself off, already pulling up his hood and mask shimmering back into existence to hide his face once more. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you back to your team.”

Lance feels his lips tug up into a smirk, propping himself up on his elbows. “Aw, you  _ do _ care.”

“Shut up.” It’s disgruntled, but not angry as he holds his hand out for Lance to take, hauling him to his feet.

_ “Blue? Blue! Are you okay? We heard the explosion.” _ Allura’s frantic voice comes through his coms.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Red’s got my back.”

There’s a pause. Then several voices. “ _ Red? _ ”

“The Blade who helped me rescue Shiro.” He looks around, but Red is already halfway down the alley, slinking through the shadows. He lowers his voice. “Guys, I saw his face. He’s fucking  _ gorgeous _ .”

There’s a cluster of groans through his coms, and a soft chuckle that sounds suspiciously like Shiro.

* * *

When Voltron and the Blade of Marmora team up, Lance isn’t sure how well they’ll work together. 

Turns out, he didn’t have any need to worry. 

“You’ve got two coming up on your right, Red,” Lance says over the coms. They shared their earpieces with the Blades that joined this mission. Communication is key when dealing with a spread out job like this. Lance has his set to be constantly open for all nearby coms. Which means mostly his assigned team, consisting of Red, Pidge, and a few other Blades who aren’t exactly talkative. 

“ _ My name’s not Red _ .” He hears the soft huff, and he watches from his perch as Red slows at the corner, pressing himself flat to the wall and waiting for the two galra to come around it before leaping at them. 

“Then tell me your real name, and I’ll call you that.”

Lance smirks at the silence that follows. Red’s protests have gotten weaker and weaker. Less grumpy as time goes on. Not that they were particularly solid protests to begin with. Leading Lance to believe that he’s actually kind of fond of the nickname. 

Lance takes a little pride in that. 

_ “Hate to break up the banter, but I’m looking at the feed from Rover, and it doesn’t look good,”  _ Pidge says.

Lance frowns notching an arrow and crouching low as he scans the area below. The walls of buildings mean next to nothing when he can see heat signatures through them. He finds Pidge easily enough. Her energy signature appears with a tinge of green. Custom coded when her specific signature was uploaded into his eye’s database. She’s crouched low in the corner of an alley, focused on the digital pad on her arm. 

Lance leaps from his perch, landing on a lower roof below and rolling automatically. The impact is a familiar ache that’s already dissipating as he rolls to his knees, already lifting his bow and aiming an ice arrow at a cluster of heat signatures that are headed unknowingly toward Pidge’s location. 

He lets it fly. It lands among them. Ice explodes out instantly, sharp and jagged spikes of it, coating the alley in a twenty foot radius of solid and frigid ice. It impales several of them. Definitely frightens all of them. Lance smirks. 

“What’s the deal, Jade?”

_ “Rose and Onyx nearly had Sendak, but he escaped capture. Barreled right past Gold’s team and evaded the Marmora team.” _

_ “Where is he now?” _ Red’s voice cuts in, sharp and quick.

“ _ Moving just beyond the compound to the north. The rest of the galra have mostly been neutralized. The riot and experiments have been stopped. The hostages are being moved to safety. Sendak’s plan failed and he’s on the run.” _

_ “I’m going after him.” _

_ “Red, wait!” _

Lance’s head snaps eyes, gaze instantly going to the last spot he saw Red. His eye locks onto it instantly, focusing and zeroing in on his energy signature. Lance had insisted before the mission that he let them upload his signature to Lance’s eye’s database. He insisted it was for the good of the mission to know which one was Red. Red had begrudgingly accepted the scan. If he questioned why Lance only scanned him and not the other Blades, he didn’t say it aloud. 

It’s definitely because Red is his favorite.

He watches as Red is already climbing the building next to him, moving quickly and easily up the rugged handholds the old architecture provides and pulling himself onto the roof without trouble. Lance knows nothing concrete about the Blade, or about Red, but from what he’s gathered, Red is super human. Alien, even. Better strength, better speed, better reflexes, better senses. It’s impressive and a little exhilarating to watch him. 

“I’m going after him.”

_ “Blue!” _

“Rally our team. Tell the others where we’re going. We’ll converge on him.”

_ “This isn’t the plan!” _

“The plan failed the moment Sendak got away,” Lance says, already running across the roof, bow in hand as he leaps, jumping to the adjacent roof. He barely makes it, sliding on the loose tiles, scrambling to find his feet. “We’re improvising now. We can’t let Sendak escape. And I’m not letting Red go after him alone.” He’s running away, eye locked onto Red’s energy signature a few buildings over, climbing and sprinting across the rooftops with far more ease than Lance. 

Which is saying something, because his team has always been impressed with how well he can scale buildings and find perches and climb around with ease. It’s second nature to him at this point, but Red makes it look effortless. He feels a small spark of jealousy, but it’s consumed by a spark of something far hotter and far more intense that settles low in his gut. 

“I’m gonna have his back.”

_ “I don’t need your help,” c _ omes the gruff reply. The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to sound breathless, even as Lance watches him leap between buildings. 

“Yeah, well, you’ve got it anyway. Everyone needs an eye in the sky, and I’m your guy.”

_ “If you can keep up.” _ There’s a note of something else there. Something lighter. Smugger. Something that very rarely shows. Teasing. Red is teasing him. Flirting with him? He can’t tell. He’ll take either. 

Lance smirks, shouldering his bow and never slowing his stride as he jumps, both hands out as he grabs hold of the wall of the building in front of him. He clings to a drain pipe, sturdy enough to hold his weight. His eye scans the side of the building, pointing out and highlighting handholds and footholds. He begins to climb. “Oh, I can keep up, but I prefer to stay a step behind.” He pulls himself onto the roof and runs to the other side, scanning for Red and drawing his bow. “I’ve got a nice view that way.”

There’s a heavy sigh and a groan over the coms, followed by Pidge’s voice.  _ “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. We’ll be following up as soon as we can.” _

“Roger. Hey, Red, find some cover.” 

_ “What?” _

“You’re about to run into a dead end, and I’m gonna clear your way. Get behind cover. Now.” Red does just that, ducking behind a wall with only a moment of hesitation. Lance plucks an arrow from his quiver without looking, having memorized the specific texture pattern on each of them. He notches the explosive arrow and lets it fly. 

The brick wall that would have blocked Keith’s path explodes, and the sound carries into the night. 

“If they didn’t know we’re here, they sure do now. I suggest you hurry.”

_ “Gee, thanks.” _

“No problem.”

As it turns out, they work really well together. Red dives into the fray, moving through enemies with a quick and agile precision. He slices and cuts, his knife forming a sword to give him better range. He throws it and pulls it from the fallen body’s chest as he twists around another enemy. It’s graceful and powerful. A predator on the battlefield. It’s incredible to watch. 

Lance, however, does more than watch. 

He follows Red from above, able to easily find vantage points to watch over him. He shoots those that are firing at him from afar. Clearing his path and stopping up enemies so Red can focus on the ones right in front of him. A couple times Lance manages to snipe one that was getting in far too close. He can’t see Red’s face, but the way he turns to look up at him, exactly where his perch is, Lance likes to think he’s smiling. 

When there aren’t vantage points for Lance to perch on, he jumps to the ground, running alongside Red’s flank. Staying far enough back to shoot, and aim being no less deadly. His eye’s impeccable aim and years of practice makes running while shooting easy. 

They catch up to Sendak, finding him bloodied and bruised and limping away as fast as he can. Lance stops him from a distance, shooting an arrow that explodes into an spiky icy barrier to cut off his path while Red charges forward, his sword at his side. 

The two of them duel, and Lance can’t get a good shot. He  _ is _ a good shot, but they’re both moving too quickly, and he really doesn’t want to risk hitting Red. So he stands off to the side of the fray, one arrow notched and bow poised, tension in the string and held only by a couple fingers. He keeps the bow trained on the two fighting, but his gaze sweeps the area constantly. 

He finds a few galra rushing to help, and picks them off the moment they step around corners. 

_ “Lance, give me a boost!” _

His head snaps to the side as he hears Pidge’s voice, half through his com and half echoing down the alley. He finds her quickly, energy signature tinged in green. Small and sprinting. He follows her path, shooting several sturdy arrows into the wall of the building. She steps onto them quickly, her light weight not breaking the shafts before she’s already moving onto the next. 

He gives her four steps, enough to get some high leverage, and then she’s leaping. Her glowing green weapon shoots, an arrowhead connected by a thick wire. It digs into Sendak’s armor and he screams, and she uses her momentum to swing herself around. Keith leaps away as she lands, pulling taut on the grapple as electricity sparks along it, Sendak screaming more as it flows through him. 

The three of them make quick work of him. He throws Pidge, but Red is there to catch her, throwing them both to the ground but safe. Lance distracts with a few well placed arrows while they climb to their feet. The three of them work in a wordless sync. Moving constantly, Pidge and Red up close while Lance aims and circles from a distance. 

He takes Sendak’s metal fist to the chest and is knocked to the ground, but it’s the distraction the others need to take him down, so Lance will take the heavy bruising and say worth it. 

With Sendak down, Pidge already injecting him with a serum that’ll keep him unconscious, Red crouches next to Lance, grabbing his hand to pull him up into a seated position. His hood must’ve fallen during the fight, because it’s pooled at his shoulders, mask gone. 

“You alright?” He asks, thick brows pinched with concern as his dark eyes search Lance’s face. 

He manages a small smile, wincing a little as he breathes a little too deep and his ribs protest. “Just dandy. Turns out we do make a good team, huh, Red?”

The small, barely there smile he gets in response makes the whole _breathing_ _hurts_ thing irrelevant because it takes his breath away. 

“Lance!”

He looks up as Allura, Shiro, and Hunk come barreling toward them. All in uniform, a little bloody and roughed up, but nothing too serious from the look of them. His eye picks up a few heat signatures that hang back in the shadows. No doubt other Blades watching from afar. A couple of them move forward to help Pidge with Sendak. 

“Who’s—“ Allura cuts off with a gasp, freezing several feet away with eyes locked on Red. 

Lance shifts, sitting a little straighter, still clinging to Red’s hand. His grip has tightened, head turned and eyes trained warily on the other members of Voltron. “Guys, this is Red.”

* * *

When Lance sets out to recruit him, he doesn’t know if he’ll say yes.

“Are you sure they’re supposed to be here?” He asks, finger pressed to his ear piece. 

_ “Supposed to be? No. But are they going to be? Yes,”  _ comes Pidge’s flat reply. He can distantly hear them typing away. “ _ Are you doubting me?” _

“Not at all, but I don’t see them.” Which is saying something, really, because Lance sees pretty much a little bit of everything. He crouches on his vantage point, back to a wall and face to the wind, eye scanning the area below. A lot of heat signatures, clustered and slowly pacing. No one in a hurry and definitely no one alarmed. None trying to sneak, and none that he recognizes as Blades. 

_ “Kolivan said they were going to take out the generators first,”  _ Hunk says.  _ “Simultaneously cutting off the main power supply to put the compound into darkness. From there they’re gonna carry out the mission to grab the evidence and... dangerous mutagens.” _

“I know, but I  _ should _ be seeing them getting into position by now.”

_ “Are you sure you’re in the right spot?” _

He sighs, closing his eyes briefly and clicking through the functions of his mechanical eye. It took a lot of getting used to at first, and a lot of practice. Connected to all of his nerves and his nervous system like a normal eye, but functioning like a scope and a computer and a lot of other things all in one. The first couple months he had near constant migraines, brain being overloaded with all the new signals it was receiving. He got used to it, though. Next came learning how to control it. A strange mix of mental signals, intent, and a few sharp movements of the muscles that control his eye. It was definitely trial and error for a while, but by now, Lance has it down to muscle memory.

He pulls up the file Pidge uploaded for him, closing his real eye for a moment so he can focus on the map in front of his vision. It’s strange, to say the least. Vision tinged with a faint blue fog but vision of what was in front of him still in the background as a computer-like interface pulls up in the foreground of his vision. This part  _ definitely _ took some getting used to in order to operate. 

He pulls up the blueprints of the compound and takes a moment to look them over. “I’m definitely in the right place. I should be able to see the generator room and the storage facility from here.” He blinks again, several times rapidly, shifting away the digital interface and restoring his vision to normal for a moment before swapping back to his heat sensors. “Still nothing though—“

He barely gets to finish before there’s an explosion. Loud and echoing. It shakes the building he’s perched on, and he grabs the ground to steady himself. His gaze snaps to the flashes of fire and the billowing plumes of smoke. 

“Never mind, they’re definitely here.” The area below is in a sudden frenzy. The whole area for a couple miles is cast into sudden darkness. Bodies, bright in his heat vision, moving and rushing. He scans all of them, finding a few Blades sneaking through the masses, signatures tinged with a faint purple. 

Then he spots a running body that’s flared in bright red. 

He smirks. “Found him.”

_ “I still don’t like this plan,” _ Allura mumbles through the coms. 

“We’ve been over this. He would make a great addition to the team. And he’d be a good link between the Blade and Voltron.”

_ “But he’s...” _ Galra. She trails off before she can say it, but they all know what she’s thinking. She hadn’t taken kindly to the fact that the entire Blade is made up of individuals that have escaped the galra. Over half of them with galra genetics, the rest experiments that managed to get away. They’re galra, fighting the tyranny of the galra empire, and Lance thinks no less of them for it. 

Allura took some convincing. 

_ “He’ll try to say no,” _ Shiro says. He still hasn’t told them how he knows Red, but it’s become increasingly clear that they know each other  _ somehow _ . And Lance suspects it has to be outside of uniform. Either way, Shiro had been very supportive of Lance’s idea to get Red to join their team. He’s made it clear that he finds Lance’s  _ mild _ obsession with him amusing.  _ “He’ll think he doesn’t deserve it, or that he won’t fit in, but I think he wants to. Just ask him again. He won’t say no a second time.” _

“Got it. Thanks, Shiro.”

_ “We’re still on coms, call me Onyx.” _ There’s probably some scolding in there, but it sounds too light and amused. 

“Okay,  _ dad _ .”

_ “I’m only five years older than you.” _

“Ancient.”

_ “Just go find Red.” _

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He lets the coms go dead as he climbs down from his perch, diving into the darkness and mingling with the shadows. His eye has already switched to a night mode. It’s a strange thing when one eye can see in the dark and the other can’t, but his brain has gotten used to the clashing signals and switches to let his right eye be dominant. 

He’s not in his usual uniform tonight. This mission was one the Blade took for themselves. There wasn’t enough evidence for Voltron to be able to do so publicly, so the Blade is doing it in the shadows. Outside the law. 

He wears his usual boots, flexible leggings and a flexible tank, and his specially designed archery gloves, but he wears a hoodie overtop it. It’s not a great disguise, but he promised to stick to the shadows. He’s good at that, at least. He has a quiver strapped to his thigh and one to his back, bow strung and slung over his shoulder.

He darts through the alleys and into a building. Dark and without power. He clings to the walls, crouching behind furniture and corners as galra run past. He’s not here to fight them. At least not on his own. Though he wishes he could. He grits his teeth and moves on. His eye lets him stay a step ahead of them, moving quickly between waves of rushing galra, and experience has him moving quickly through the fray.

He finds Red deep within the building, trapped by himself in a hallway with a large handful of galra soldiers. All bigger than him. Most with weapons. He can tell from a quick glance at Red’s vital signs that he’s holding up, but just barely. He’s quick and strong, but so are they. And he’s vastly outnumbered in a place where he can’t get away. 

Breathing deep, Lance grabs his bow, notches a scatter arrow, draws the string, and steps out from behind the corner. “Red! Get down!”

He watches as Red stiffens but doesn’t hesitate. He completes an arc of his sword before dropping to the ground. It only takes Lance a second to line up his shot. The world seems to slow as his eye shoots the information to his brain rapid fire, and his mind processes it far faster than it would for anyone else. He sees Red’s position, the position of all the galra around him. He calculates the spot and angle and trajectory his arrow would need to hit to scatter perfectly enough to hit them, but not Red. 

He processes it all in a matter of milliseconds. Sees the angle. Sees the spot. Mind controlling muscles automatically as the shot is lined up. Targeting scope in his eye locking onto the chosen spot. 

He releases. 

The arrow flies.

It hits the wall exactly where he was aiming, scattering and breaking apart, shards flying. 

The galra soldiers shout. Flashes of blood. The bodies fall. Some of them stay standing, only staggering but holding. Keith finishes them off quickly. Then he’s stepping over them, chest heaving with every breath and sword bloody as he meets Lance halfway down the hall. 

He grins. His mask is still on, hiding everything nose and below, but he can feel the grin crinkling the corners of his eyes and lifting his cheeks. “You know, for a secret organization who prides themselves on being sneaky, you guys sure do like explosions.”

He doesn’t hear the laugh, nor can he see his face, but he sees the slight shake of Red’s shoulders. “What’re you doing here?”

Is it just him, or did that sound mildly fond?

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Red looks around, head turning toward the bodies littering the hallway. Lance wonders if his night vision is part of the mask or a natural part of him. “Here?”

Lance shrugs, smirk still in place. “I couldn’t exactly  _ call _ you. You guys make it extremely hard to get in contact.”

“You could have called Kolivan.”

“I don’t want to talk to Kolivan. I want to talk to  _ you _ .”

Red’s head turns, snapping to the side and staring off into an empty hallway. Lance hears the footsteps a moment later. Red is already crouching low, getting into a defensive stance with his blade held up. Lance rolls his eyes and grabs him by the scruff of his uniform, dragging him backwards until they’ve ducked into an empty room. 

He hears the huff, but Red follows his lead, crouching low by the open doorway, safely out of sight. “How many?”

Lance turns in the direction he heard the footsteps, knowing that he must look like an idiot staring at a wall. Red doesn’t question it, though. He’s seen Lance in action far too often by now. Lance waits until the galra get closer. Waits until there’s less walls between them and he can accurately separate their heat signatures. The galra stop by the bodies, muttering and shouting amongst themselves. He can’t hear their words, but he wonders if Red can. 

“Six,” he says under his breath. “They’re inspecting the bodies. Still not sure if they’ll head this way or not.”

Red nods once. “What did you want to talk to me about?” The question is uncharacteristically shy. Uncertain. Hesitant in a way that makes Lance think he wants to take them back the moment he says them. 

Lance keeps his head turned toward the wall, watching the heat signatures through it. But he grins. “I’m here to formally extend an invitation to join Voltron.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Red turn to stare. “What?”

“Voltron? The badass team that I’m apart of? Super cool superheroes? We want you to join.”

A pause. That uncertainty is back, but this time fringed with confusion and, if he’s right about reading him, a little bit of hope. “Really?”

Lance turns to look at him then. Knows he can’t see his eyes, but stares right at the glowing eyes of the mask anyway. He smiles, feeling it soften his face, hoping Red can see it, too. “I think we make a pretty good team. Don’t you?”

The silence between them stretches, and Lance can feel it in his rapid heartbeat. His palms feel sweaty, breaths coming short as nerves eat away at his gut. He stares at that emotionless mask, wishing for all the world that he could see Red’s face. 

Then Red turns away, facing the door once again. “Help me finish this job, and I’ll think about it.” It’s flat and indifferent, but in a way that sounds a hair too forced. Try as he might, Lance is far to adept at picking up on smiles to miss the one he can hear in Red’s voice. 

He grins. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

When they meet as civilians, Lance doesn’t know his name.

He does, however, know that face. He’s recognize it anywhere. Despite the fact that his skin is now pale and without a fleck of violet, despite the fact that his ears are short and rounded, despite the fact that his hair is now a solid black instead of a deep purple with an under layer of magenta. Despite that, Lance recognizes him. 

He’s in line at a coffee shop near Altea Corp., on his usual afternoon run for some of that sweet, much needed caffeine, when he sees him. 

He sits at a table by the window, elbow on the table and chin in his hand, gazing out at the street. Gaze distant and bored. His other hand idly holds a coffee cup, finger tapping at it. He’s wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt, red hoodie halfway zipped up his chest with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, swallowing his frame and making him look small. He looks like anyone else in the coffeeshop. A normal, average human, looking anti-social, bored, and  _ average _ . 

Except Lance recognizes him. 

He knows those sharp, delicate features. He knows that pointed little nose and the thick brows and the long lashes. He knows that pouty lips that seem perpetually pursed into a slight frown. He knows that unruly mop of dark hair and the way it curls and frames around his face. 

He’s just as cute like this as when he’s in skin tight body armor, looking purple and primal as he stabs aliens through the chest. 

Once Lance gets his drink, he saunters over to the table, sliding into the seat across from him before Red has a chance to even know he’s there. He blinks, lifting his head and turning to stare at him. Confusion and surprise bleed quickly into annoyance. 

“Can I help you?” Rough around the edges. Irritated. Sharp. Deep voice. Yup, definitely Red. 

Lance grins, leaning back in his chair and draping his arm over the back of the empty seat next to him. His other hand curls around his coffee cup. His long legs stretch out beneath the table. He’s dressed average. Jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Sunglasses perched atop his head.

“Now, is that anyway to greet a friend?”

Red’s scowl deepens, frown becoming more prominent. “I don’t know you.”

“Aw, Red, you wound me.”

At the mention of the nickname, the man across from him stiffens. Back going straight and eyes widening, brows furrowing and expression becoming a strange mix of surprised and guarded. “What... what did you call me?”

Lance’s grin widens. Widens until he feels the ache in his cheeks and his eyes are all squinted with it. He tilts his head, giving Red a little nod. He winks as he does so. With the wink, as the lid of his right eye closes, he activates is bionic eye. When his lid slides open again, his eye no longer match. His right is ice blue and piercing. 

Red pulls back a fraction, lips parting as surprise overtakes any sort of wariness. Lance blinks, deactivating his eye, and in the flash of a moment, he’s back to having two, matching, average blue eyes. 

But Red is still gaping at him. 

Grin still in place, he leans forward, putting his elbows on the table, handles cradling his coffee cup. He tilts his chin down, eyeing Red through his lashes as he lowers his voice. “I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. Name’s Lance.”

Red relaxes slowly. Surprise melting inch by inch. His expression, however, doesn’t go back to wary. Instead, a sly smirk curves his lips. Small. Almost shy around the edges, had it not been for the amused gleam in his eyes. He leans forward, mirroring Lance’s position on the table, leaning in so their knuckles nearly touch and their faces are barely a foot apart. 

“Keith.” He says it like it’s a secret he’s not used to sharing, but feels thrilled to do so anyway. 

“Keith,” Lance repeats, feeling far too breathless, which is a  _ problem _ when he’s trying to look cool. “You look a little different than I remember.”

Keith holds up a hand, giving Lance a good look at the thick ring band that wraps around the middle finger of his right hand. “It’s the ring. Provides a visual field that makes me appear...”

“Less purple?” 

“Human.” The hand falls back to join the other around his coffee cup. This time their knuckles are  _ definitely _ touching. It sends electricity buzzing through Lance’s veins and shivers down his spine. Neither of them pull away from the touch. 

“Your eye is... different.”

Lance shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “When all the fancy shit is powered down, it looks just like my other eye.” Keith hums, and Lance stretches out a finger, hooking it around one of Keith’s. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hand uncurls a little more, offering more fingers for Lance to hook his own around. Which he does. Gladly. “You got any plans today?”

Keith’s eyes are on their joined hands, a strangely soft look on his face that Lance isn’t used to seeing when they’re out on missions, but one that he could definitely get used to all the same. “We have a meeting tonight with the team.”

“True, but I mean before that.”

“No.”

“What’d you say we get outta here?”

Keith looks up then, through his lashes. Shy smile on his lips and wicked gleam in his eyes. It makes Lance’s heart stutter in his chest. “Think you can handle me, Blue?”

A spark ignites in his chest, seeping down to settle in his gut. “I’m sure as hell gonna try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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